Shelter from the Storm
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: Your family should be your refuge, your shelter from your stormy life. Series of oneshots that continue Ranger and Stephanie's story from Take a Chance. In TAC they were engaged...now what? Mercenary Ranger/Babe/HEA
1. Chapter 1

Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.

**Shelter from the Storm **

**.**

**A/N-** Zoë is Baby Manoso from Risky Business (in Take a Chance)—Ranger's dreams DID come true. This "story" is a series of oneshots that continue Ranger and Stephanie's story from Take a Chance. In TAC they were engaged...now what?

Of course if you've read The Price is Right you'll know that in my Plum world/ Mercenary Ranger world, R & S are happily married, work partners, life partners and sometimes bemused, confused, berfuddled parents of baby Zoë and...? Some stories include Julie too, but mostly the series is about Ranger and his daughter Zoë, and how he reconciles his various worlds/ lives. I try hard not to write sappy family fics but I 've always thought JE is making a big mistake not having R & S become life partners in all aspects. I think they'd be great together and this is how I see it happening.

Most of the stories will be posted in chronlogical order [after this prolog] unless I want to tie it into the current calendar year; if you get very confused I'll put a timeline somewhere. Each story is complete in itself, since I never post an unfinished story. However I may add to this at anytime, I'm sure I will in fact. Currently there are maybe 25 "chapters" written.

I hope you enjoy, feedback is wonderful if you care to !

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**Prolog: **Shelter from the Storm****

_Part 1- Ranger _

**Outside the Haywood Street windows a late summer thunderstorm** flashed and banged with impotent fury. It was late August, 2 AM.

I sat in the pretty white rocking chair, holding my newest daughter in my arms. I had brought her to the nursery after she was fed and satisfied, but instead of tucking her into her excruciatingly adorable pink crib, I was holding her and rocking her, keeping her safe from the storm.

But like her mother, Zoë Emilia Manoso could sleep through anything. I peered down at her tiny face, the wisps of (hopefully straight) dark hair, the creamy cafe au lait skin, the perfect rosebud mouth. And I marveled at her beauty and tiny-ness. I had never seen Julie when she was this small —Zoë is just 3 weeks old—I missed that with Julie, away on some covert mission, unreachable, untouchable.

The lightning flashed close by, thunder rolled and crashed, audible even through the double bullet-proof glass windows of our expanded Haywood Street loft. The explosive sound and flashing lights took me back—not to the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan, but to Delta Force training, all those years ago, me and Tank, under fire during some training exercise. I hated those duck and cover type games, they usually involved live ammo and a lot of injuries, Special Ops' way of determining the survival of the fittest.

And yeah, Tank and I—Bobby, Lester, my half-brother Antonio—we were survivors. So we got to be the real thing—operatives, they called us, not soldiers. And we were—_I am—_very, very good.

''Ranger?''

''Babe.''

''What's wrong? Is Zoë afraid of the storm?''

''No. Not Zoë. She's fine.''

I rose and tucked my infant daughter, my baby, my treasure into her crib while Steph drew the blinds and the frilly pink curtains. We stood for a moment, holding hands and watching Zoë sleep.

Steph said, ''She'll be fine, Ranger, don't worry.'' I knew Steph meant "fine" in a cosmic sense, not just here and now, tonight.

I nodded and we went back to sleep, both of us secretly praying that Zoë would grow up to be a fashion model or a teacher—a lawyer, a doctor. Or, or,or—something_, anything—_safe.

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><p><strong>Give Me Shelter<strong>

_Part 2-Stephanie_

**I stood in the doorway of Zoë's nursery**, watching Ranger rock her oh so gently in the big white rocking chair that had been a gift from my parents. My mom had presented it to us, the seat engulfed in a huge pink bow.

My mom said, ''Rocking will soothe a cranky baby and calm you down too.''

''That's so nice, mom.''

''After all,'' she went on, "you're going to need all the help you can get. Neither of you is exactly—well—very good parent material, are you?'' Mom added.

Ranger stared at her in silence.

?

My eyes filled with hot tears. I was excited about the coming baby and Ranger was unexpectedly pleased too (in his own understated way, of course). Who ever knew Ranger Manoso loved babies?

As the silence dragged on and on, Ranger's warm hand closed hard around my icy fingers, sending me his silent vibe of calm and safety. If not for Ranger, I would never have known unconditional love and I felt my face turn red with humiliation at my mother's words.

Finally Ranger said, "Your vote of confidence is overwhelming."

_(Not!)_

My mother stammered a bit, suddenly remembering that her soon to be son-in-law was a very frightening man.

Now I watched him with Zoë—my protector. Our protector. He talked me into keeping that rocking chair—"Don't let her spoil your joy, babe. You'll be the best mother ever."

''I can't cook!'' I sobbed. I was a little hormonal from the pregnancy. That's my excuse and I am sticking with it.

''Ella will cook. I can cook. We'll order take-out.''

''I can't sew!''

Ranger looked a bit puzzled, like _why would I want to sew?_, but he calmly said, ''Ella will sew. My family can sew."

"What will _I _do?"

"You'll love this baby forever and always, you'll teach her to fly.''

I didn't try to tell Ranger that he'd be a wonderful father—but of course he is. Not only is he a fine person, intelligent, moral (if gray), honorable and strong; he has a deep well of generosity and love and a quiet, gentle side that he keeps rigorously hidden.

And just look at him now, look at baby Zoë! She is so happy, so content in his arms. His mouth curls up a little in his almost smile and my heart clenches with love for them both. I study their dear faces—Zoë is an amazing, tiny replica of her daddy, only a little fairer, her skin more latte than mocha. And like Ranger, Zoë is already very very beautiful. So beautiful it makes you want to cry—in a good way.

But _sometimes—_even at just three weeks—_sometimes_ when Zoë and I are alone...I think I see a spark of mischief in her dark eyes. And I smile, knowing that, yes! someday, Zoë will fly.

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><p><strong>A Sheltered Life <strong>

_Part 3- Zoë_

**My name is Princess Zoë Manoso** and I am an InterGalactic Princess. I'm just a baby but I know this is true because my daddy who is maybe the most beautiful person in the universe and definitely the most powerful always calls me his little princess.

For years when he thought about me he called me Baby Manoso, but now I got born and I am a human baby girl with a real name. Zoh-Eeee—excellent, very princess-y. I am a very good baby (I heard Mommy telling that to my grandma Ellen) because I am warm and dry and Mommy feeds me whenever I, um, ask.

But I may not be a happy baby for long because this room I live in is _effin' pink_, as Uncle Lester says. Pink! What's with that? An InterGalactic Princess—IGP for short—'s habitat should be black and purple, and have silver sparkles all around. And twinkly silver stars on the sky. It should be all silk and velvet and glittery tulle and smell of jasmine and myrrh—not Johnson's Baby Powder! And her music should be cool, should be awesome—not that deedle-deedle-dee _Small World_ crap that my Man-in-the-Moon mobile plays.

As soon as I'm big enough I'm going to get me an InterGalactic laser gun and shoot that thing—lol!

Tonight we had a storm and Daddy held me and rocked me. It was nice, he is big and warm and he smells good. I am so tiny that I fit almost entirely in just one of his big hands, just my feet kinda hang out a little. Poor feet, in those awful pink booties! Soon I will wear black stiletto boots, just watch me.

Sometimes when he thinks we are all alone Daddy sings to me—lullabies in a different language that I understand anyway because (good thing since I can't _talk_ yet, geez!)—I inherited Daddy's ESP.

So he sings soft and thinks _I love you, Princess Zoë Emilia_. As well he should because I am beautiful and perfect just like him, Mommy says. And he dreams of the future, planning my life all safe and secure. And he is happy, just for a while.

As if an InterGalactic Princess would _ever_ want Safe and Secure!

_Hah!_

I, Princess Zoë Manoso—I plan to FLY!

''Goodnight, Zoë,'' they whisper. "We love you."

I think, ''Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy. I love you too.''

tbc

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><p><strong><em>an 2: this chapter takes place around the same time as The Math Teacher and upcoming Mercenaries R Us._**


	2. Chapter 2 Cadillac, Cadillac

a/n-Tonight for your reading enjoyment [?] I have a joint songfic for you all-Bon Jovi & Springsteen. Good old Jersey boys, for sure.

_Bed of Roses_-Jon Bon Jovi

_Cadillac Ranch_ (Meadowlands Arena, 7/6/81)

Bruce Springsteen

Cadillac, Cadillac  
>Long and bright, shiny and [black]<p>

Eldorado fins, whitewalls and skirts  
>Rides just like a little bit of heaven here on earth<br>Well buddy when I die throw my body in the back  
>And drive me to the junkyard in my Cadillac<p>

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><p>This story takes place right after Take a Chance &amp; Half Past Eleven and BEFORE Shelter from the StormProlog, so we are going back in time a little, to before Zoe's birth. Ranger has given Stephanie his rings...but still...life with Steph is no bed of roses, lol.

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**Chapter 2 ~ Cadillac, Cadillac/ Bed of Roses**

**.**

**My name is Stephanie Plum and I **_**looove **_**to sleep**. So you can imagine my dismay tonight as I lay in my now-unfamiliar bed in my unfamiliar apartment, unable to sleep, wracked with worry about Ranger's whereabouts. This time. Again. Whatever.

Recently Ranger and I made some changes—OMG, he even gave me an engagement ring! And we've allowed ourselves to slip into an intimate if relentlessly un-discussed relationship that was, in my opinion, working out amazingly well. Why am I amazed? I guess I shouldn't be—when fully clothed and on his feet Ranger is quiet, even-tempered, affectionate and often polite, though always armed and dangerous, of course. Get him naked and horizontal, and—wow!

Actually horizontal isn't even a necessity. I almost giggled, remembering some primo time spent in the shower...in the kitchen...in his Porsche...

But the thing is, he still sometimes disappears, is _in the wind_, as they say, or to use Tank's favorite phrase, is _off-line_. Nowadays Ranger always tells me that he is leaving and when I expressed surprise that he did so, he said, "I've been seeing you to say goodbye before every job for years, babe. Almost since we met."

"You have?" I said stupidly.

"Yeah. You just never noticed…." He dropped a kiss on my head and went back to packing his weapons. And the next morning he was gone. Again! Freakin' again. This could get old, fast. That was a couple weeks ago. Now I shivered in my dank sheets and rubbed my eyes, refusing to cry.

The apartment was quiet. No Rex running on his wheel. Rex lived at Rangeman. Heck, I live at Rangeman. I think I only kept this place for a bolt hole in case things went bad with Ranger. Last summer, after we'd been _sleeping together_ for a few weeks, Ranger asked me why I was keeping my place, "You're here with me all the time, babe. You have space in my closet, Rex lives in my kitchen. Your gun's in your cookie jar on the counter." He pulled open a cupboard and added, "We have a big supply of cheap Skippy peanut butter and Frosted Flakes, too."

"You need your privacy," I said, "You like your own space."

"I like my own space with you in it, Stephanie," he answered.

Then, so priceless, I think he heard what he said and he looked just for a moment aghast or amazed. Then the zillion watt smile spread wide across his face and he grabbed me and whirled me around, saying, "Stay here with me, babe. Okay? Stay?" And so mostly that's what I did, but I kept my place for these long sad absences that seemed a big part of Ranger's life.

This time , before he left I got up the nerve to ask him what would happen if God forbid, something went wrong...who would tell me, what would I do…? And he came and sat by me on the sofa, reaching out for the remote to mute the huge TV. He said, "This job isn't like that, you don't need to worry."

"Okay…?"

"But I did put you down as next of kin, babe. However, if you want to be sure that you get an army chaplain and a senior officer or someone official, if you wanna be there to get the flag that they fold up off my coffin…we'd need to be married, Steph. Otherwise you might just get Tank and Anthony or Lester, or—who knows? My mother will call you?"

Actually that sounded better than some strange officials, but I said, "Married? Flag?"

"Yeah, the military might want to go through the motions but Anthony, if he—or—well, whoever, will make sure my ashes are scattered to the winds and the ocean."

I poked him. "Married?"

"What's the problem, Steph? I've told you I love you, I gave you the rings... It would be better if we were married, safer, more secure. You'd be protected and provided for, for the rest of your life. I wouldn't have to—" he hesitated, whispered with a tiny catch maybe in his voice, "—worry about you all the time." He cleared his throat and added, "We could have kids."

"I, I , I—" I mumbled, leaning away.

He said, "If you want them, babe. It's not a deal breaker."

After a few beats of silence from me, Ranger gave me a little hug and said, "Okay, well, maybe someday, you let me know, babe."

… … …

**What the hell was wrong with me, anyway**? Ranger is a good man, I love him, I've loved him for years. And yet, instead of shrugging off my stupid "baggage", my qualms about marriage and parenthood—I just let him walk out the door. Sure, he smiled, he kissed me…and if his heart ached from my stupidity, if he was hurt or even feeling hopeless, he showed no sign.

Now I listened carefully, thinking I heard whispers in the outer hall beyond my door. There was another reason I was hiding here, not a very good reason, but as I just showed you, analytical thinking is not my strong point.

What's wrong now, you want to know?

Junkman's brother was in town, flew in from LA last week to hunt down "da bitch who killed my bro."

I desperately if somewhat chickenshit-ly was hoping he'd look for Sally Sweet not me. And I was hiding here in my old place. I rolled over and sighed, drifted off to a restless sleep. Woke up when my door busted in, been there/ done that, and heard the trash-talking Trashman (_cute names, boys, real catchy_) yelling in my foyer. Heavy footsteps, two or three men, no attempt at hiding. In the five seconds before they burst into my bedroom I scrambled out of bed, wrenched open the window and rolled out onto the fire escape. I righted myself, turned and slammed the window shut in Trashman's face. He was screaming muffled obscenities and pounding on the glass, the old brittle cheap glass. But not for nothing had I lived with Ranger for the past six months. I wrenched the small revolver out of the side tape of my lace trimmed thong underpants and pivoted to level it at Trashman. And the metal slats underfoot fell away with a sad crumble of rotten metal. My shot went wild and my bare foot slid through the old rusty treads of the fire escape.

The pain was excruciating. I was caught almost up to my knee and when I fell sideways, I had also scraped my other knee somehow and both elbows. And of course I dropped the gun.

When I looked back at the window, though, it was empty of leering black faces and I looked around, saw Trashman and his posse slither through the parking lot and disappear down the alley past the dumpster.

Forcing back the tears I took a second to assess. The old window must have jammed shut because Trashman couldn't open it. So I was locked out here in my thong and my little cotton camisole. Actually it probably didn't matter because I was pretty sure my leg was stuck tight. I saw a tetanus shot in my future and I wasn't too happy. On the plus side, it was warm late-spring night, almost summer-like. And maybe some of my elderly neighbors would still be around. I scanned the parking lot hopefully….

Fifteen minutes later Mr. Bronkowski from 4 G chugged into the lot in his ancient but well maintained '87 Subaru wagon.

"Yo! Mr. Bronkowski! Help! " I screamed and waved. "Help me!"

He looked up at me, tipped his ball cap and wandered off inside.

…. …. ….

**Over the next half hour** I watched and yelled and was ignored by Ms Patty and Ms Missy Bayer, who toddled in with their ancient peach-colored poodle after his evening "walkies"; by Mrs. Rivera, who did glance up from her new grandbaby's stroller and wave before she hustled off after her older grandkids; and half a dozen other folks, who smiled and waved and yelled _Nice night!_

I'm guessing I've spent way too much time on this balcony in my undies. _Everyone thinks it is normal,_ I thought with an oncoming sob. I bit my lip to no avail and just as the tears finally began to really flow, yet another big old behemoth of a car rolled into my lot. It was big, it was pink and it was blasting Jon Bon Jovi. The car rolled to a stop and I stared. It was a boat of a car—no, an oceanliner of an automobile! Shit, it was the friggin' Queen Mary on steroids!

_I want to lay you down on a bed of roses  
>For tonite I sleep on a bed on nails<br>And lay you down on bed of roses _

Oh yeah, I know that song, shades of hot summer nights at the Jersey shore with Mary Lou, two silly teenagers strutting on the boardwalk….

_The hotel bar hangover whiskey's gone dry  
>The barkeeper's wig's crooked<br>And she's giving me the eye  
>I might have said yeah<br>But I laughed so hard I think I died_

_want to lay you down on a bed of roses  
>For tonite I sleep on a bed on nails<br>And lay you down on bed of roses  
>lay you down on bed of roses <em>

The car was a 50s era Cadillac, a candy pink convertible, white leather top folder down to show white leather interior. It was covered with chrome and had fins the size of Rhode Island. The red taillight bullets looked like a pin-up's nipples on a vintage girly calender.…it looked like Gram's Buick's cross-dressing big brother. It stopped below my perch and the driver glanced up at me. I was expecting another senior citizen, but no. It was a young man and he was wearing rose-tinted heart shaped Lolita sunglasses. A gay guy, in a pink LaCoste shirt, collar flipped up just so, peroxide blond-tipped dark hair, diamond encrusted watch on seriously limp wrist. Nice tan.

_Hunh! Why me?_ But always an optimist, I leaned over the edge of the fire escape and yelled, "Hey! Help."

The man leaned forward and cranked Bon Jovi up a dozen notches.

_I_ _want to lay you down on a bed of roses_  
><em>For tonite I sleep on a bed on nails<em>  
><em>I want to be just as close ….<em>  
><em>And lay you down on bed of roses<em>

_Drown me out, eh? _I screamed, "Helloooo? Hey, I need heeeelp!"

The man finally really looked up at me and that awful sensation of the floor dropping away hit me.

The man was Ranger.

No! The man looked like Ranger? Anyway with a few exquisitely languid moves, he extricated himself from the pink Caddy and looked at me again. His outfit was so gay, so gay—worse than I'd thought, who knew LaCoste made XS pink belly shirts? He teamed it with skintight, absolutely nothing left to the imagination palest blue D&G jeans—strategically delicate rips and frays in_ all_ the crucial places. White leather flipflops. Bright red pedicure.

He settled his little tush on the side of the car, gave me a swishy little finger wave, and called up to me, "Sweetie! I_ called_ the _fire_ de_part_ment." He pulled off the pink sunglasses and hooked them in the front of his shirt.

Omigod, was that not Ranger's voice? Unsure I yelled, "Trashman is after me! He was here with his crew."

The guy threw me some kisses and did some shrugs, waffling haplessly. Then he clutched his hands to his chest and shuddered dramatically.

I yelled, "Call Tank!"

He shook his head and stared up at me, fluttering his hands again. But the eyes were Ranger's eyes, and they were saying, _No fucking way!_

_I _started to cry again.

But when he turned to reach down into the car, I saw he had Ranger's gun in the back of those lowrise pants. Thank God.

My tears stopped immediately and I yelled, "Cute dimples, sweetie."

The man ignored me and contemplated the old rusty stairs with a shudder and then swiftly climbed up to my side. When he got near and I smelled the familiar Bulgari, I burst into tears yet again and gibbered nonsense about how much my foot hurt and how scared I was and how I dropped my gun. The man put his arm around me and somehow produced a white hanky from the painted-on jeans . He wiped my tears. He wrapped me up in his pink Juicy Couture hoodie. He whispered, "You'll be okay," and handed me his extra gun. "It's loaded, babe," he added, all the while doing the flutters and swishes for anyone watching.

It was creepy in an oddly hilarious way.

_When you close your eyes_  
><em>Know I'll be thinking about you<em>  
><em>While my mistress she calls me<em>  
><em>To stand in her spotlight again<em>  
><em>Tonite I won't be alone<em>  
><em>But you know that don't<em>  
><em>Mean I'm not lonely I've got nothing to prove<em>  
><em>For it's you that I'd die to defend <em>

I sniffled a few more times then said, "Is it Halloween?"

"Job."

"Do I want to know?"

"No."

"You couldn't call Tank?"

"Babe."

"Not even for me?"

"Not even for you. I'd never live it down, I'd be laughed back to P-town for good, babe." [Provincetown, MA]

"Actually, I think I like the hair, Ranger. I think it looks hot. And maybe this shirt, I like this shirt—it's cut very short." Yes! The tables are turned! I ran my hand over his exposed and always awesome abs, and he shuddered.

His skin felt like hot silk velvet under my fingertips.

Our eyes locked just before our mouths did. Then our moment—or hours?—our moment was rudely invaded by three Trenton Fire Department trucks, including the bomb squad van, sirens blasting; half a dozen TPD cars, both black and whites and unmarkeds, all with the sirens and lights too…and yes: Morelli—banging on my window from inside. So far no shiny black Rangeman Explorers though. I'm pretty sure Ranger was grateful for that.

Ranger whispered, "My work here is done, babe," and he scampered down the fire escape, hopped the door into the pink Caddie and disappeared down the street, just as the window popped open and Morelli popped out.

Morelli watched him go, then turned to me, "Either the guys laced my coffee with LSD or that was Ranger. Wearing pink."

I shrugged.

Morelli said pensively, "I always think of him as a badass Batman or Spiderman. I never pictured his as, I don't know—Lord Fancy Pants? Pinkman?"

"A man of mystery," I managed and shrugged again.

"I guess," said Morelli. And then he snickered.

…. …. ….

_I'm not lonely I've got nothing to prove_  
><em>For it's you that I'd die to defend<em>

_I want to lay you down on a bed of roses_

_lay you down on bed of roses_

He sang along to the old BonJovi song, and thought _I love you, babe…._

_end of story/ series tbc_

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><p><em>a<em>/n If you want to know **WHY Ranger was wearing pink**, what the job is, pls leave me a review and a request and I will PM the follow up to you within a few days. It doesn't "go" in this group of stories. But...it's, uh, interesting? Remember: **review** [NOT a PM , NOT an email] including a **request**. Your choice.

Of course you can just leave a review, I LOVE reviews. Thx!


	3. Chapter 3 Late

**Hi! Thank you all for the wonderful reviews for Chapter 2! I knew you guys could do it! If you asked for the outtake "Why IS Ranger Wearing Pink" and didn t get it, pls check your PM settings. Some of you have PM disabled. If I just accidentally skipped you, pls PM me? FF doesn't make it easy to send files.**

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><p><strong>an I am generally not at all fond of Steph-gets-pregnant stories, but here it is….I hope you all enjoy.**

**.**

**Shelter from the Storm ~ Chapter Three **

**.**

**Late**

**.**

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**A chilly Friday night, early winter**. I let myself into the apartment on the 7th floor, set my keys in the silver dish and followed the sound of the TV into the den. Unintentionally silent-—t's a habit, what can I tell you?—I was surprised to hear Steph's voice, saying, "I'm late! I'm late! I'm late!"

I glanced at the TV to see if she was watching _Alice in Wonderland_, but no….I said, "Reading Lewis Carroll, babe?" And she jumped in surprise and glared at me.

"Geez! Make a noise, Ranger! No! I was NOT reading—whatever!" She returned her attention to the TV, but I didn't think she was really watching it. She was just shutting me out. _Why?_ I wondered.

I glanced at my watch and searched my mind for any possible forgotten appointments. Nope, nada. I said, "So what are you late for, babe?"

She slowly turned her head and glared at me.

Oh. Well, even the smartest man can be stupid sometimes. Since Steph and I became a couple—I stifled my cringe—and we were both healthy and committed, we had changed from using condoms to just the Pill.

97% effective rate and all that.

I said, "Are you sure?"

"NO! But…."

"So why don't you do the home test thing before you panic, babe. Let's take it one step at a time."

Steph's eyes were huge and her face looked pale. She said, "Good advice. But that's just the trouble with me. I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it."

"What's the issue here, babe?"

"I didn't want to buy a test box in the Burg—for sure someone would tell my mom!"

I sat down next to her and took her hand. It was icy and I could feel her fine trembling when I drew her to me for a hug. "I'll send one of the guys out to get a pregnancy test, babe. That way, we'll know for sure."

"But…"

"I'll send one of the guys who is married, low-profile and so on. Okay?"

She nodded against my chest. I kissed the top of her head and got up, walked into the kitchen and called Tank. Fifteen minutes later, Brett appeared with a CVS bag. I thanked him and took the bag to Steph who sat in miserable silence the entire time, refusing to talk to me, biting her nails.

Steph grabbed the bag and went into the bathroom. I followed her, but she shut the door in my face, said, "I don't need you to help me pee, Ranger."

The lock clicked loudly to emphasize her point. I was getting the idea that a baby wasn't a good thing in Steph's world. Through the door I said, "How long does it take?" doing my best to keep the excitement out of my voice.

"Geez, I haven't even peed yet!" Silence, then the toilet flushed, the water ran in the sink. Steph's voice said, "Can you wait in the living room? It takes three minutes to, um, decide."

I sat on the sofa with my head in my hands.

Awhile later I heard footsteps and Steph appeared yelling, "Omigod, omigod!—Omigod, what are all you guys doing here?"

Tank, Lester, Bobby, Hal, Manny, Binky, at least a dozen guys sat or stood, waiting with me. Male solidarity and all. They wanted a baby too, I was guessing.

Steph burst into tears and the guys all cheered and clapped me on the back, shook my hand and tried to kiss Steph who just wailed louder.

I jerked my head a little and two seconds later Steph and I were alone. On his way out Tank did the eye confrontation thing, _You okay, Rangeman?_

I nodded. _Yeah I can handle this._

I was lying and he knew it.

_Good luck._

When we were alone I went to Steph and l picked her up in my arms, sat on the sofa holding her on my lap. Unusually for me, I had no idea what to say or how to make it better…make it go away? I flinched inside at the thought.

"Babe? You don't want this child?" I finally asked carefully. "Or are you just scared?"

"I, I , I—you said, no babies! No pregnancies—remember?" she gasped.

Huh? I distinctly remembered telling her that I love kids and would like more children, a child that I was now in a decent position to raise. But Steph doesn't always listen so good.

I said, "What?"

"It was when Scrog took Julie, we were having breakfast outside the bonds office, don't you remember?"

"Vaguely but it was a long time ago, Steph."

"You said, 'No rings, no pregnancies, nothing non-consensual!' "

See, this was my problem with Stephanie—especially back then, at that point in our lives—she doesn't always get what I mean and she never asks me to clarify, she just holds her hurt inside and lets it fester.

I said, "I did say that, babe. But what I meant was that I'd never insist we get married or have a baby if _you_ didn't want that. I knew Morelli and your family put a lot of pressure on you to get married again, settle down, have a kid, whether you wanted to or not….I meant we'd only have those things if we decided it together…."

"But we didn't decide! This baby is an accident! In fact, how could this even happen? Why me!"

Now was not the moment to discuss the 3% failure rate of contraceptive pills.

I tried to figure out what to say, but she went on, "I'll be fat, you'll hate it, you'll hate me! You won't want me and this baby! You won't love us! I am so sorry, I am so…." She started crying again.

"I _will_ want you, Steph. I always will. When I told you I'd love you forever, what?-—you thought that was just bullshit sweet talk? I don't lie about things like that, Stephanie. And I told you I wanted kids, I can imagine no greater gift that you would give me, nothing is more precious than a baby, nothing except you."

"You like babies?" Her tearstained face was incredulous.

I shrugged. "Well, yeah." I didn't know the words to tell her that I'd dreamed of an infant with her eyes and my hair, all those hours, all those years on covert missions, I'd held that wish/hope/dream secretly in my heart.

"You want this baby," she asked again.

I said, "More than anything in this world, Steph. I love you. And I love our baby. Never doubt that for a second."

She threw her arms around my neck and we kissed.

… … ….

**Later she sat quietly **at my side, her mood shifting from bereft to ecstatic to pensive. Ah, hormones…. I said, "Are you okay, babe?"

"I'm scared, Ranger."

"We'll have the doctor give you good drugs." I knew that was a fib—they'd make her do natural childbirth, but I felt the lie was justified right t this moment. "And I'll be there holding your hand every second. I promise."

"What if you're in the wind?"

"I'll make sure I get home in time."

"What if I'm not a good mom?"

"You'll be the best mom a kid ever had, babe."

… ... ...

Baby Manoso aka Zoë Emilia Manoso was born August 12th, on her daddy's birthday. She weighed 7 pounds, 1 ounce. And she was beautiful.

Ranger got it wrong, though—Zoë has his eyes and her mother's hair. But he still thinks she is perfect.

**the end/ hea**

**series TBC**


	4. Chapter 4 Hello, hello!

a/n Most of the stories in this collection were written for my writing group. Often they are built around movie quotes and now and then you may have the fun of recognizing a line or two. Many thanks to everyone there, especially C & M—without your inspirations these scenes would never have existed.

love

s

* * *

><p><em><strong>Shelter from the Storm <strong>_

_**.**_

_**.**_

**_Chapter Four ~ Hello, hello!_**

_**.**_

[Ranger]

**Steph clutches my hand and stares** at me with her big blue eyes. "You made it."

"I promised, babe, did you doubt me?"

"Nooooo, not you, but just um...events, maybe?"

... ... ...

Yeah, well, events had me running an undercover solo job over in the sand pit this past week, even though Steph was due to give birth any minute. I was halfway back to the US in a plane over the Atlantic when I got Tank's somewhat frantic call: "Rangeman, get your ass back to Trenton, I am NOT doing the delivery coach thing, not even for you."

I landed at an air force base near DC and lucky for me, I have _connections_ because the marine heli that is Marine One when the president is in it was waiting for me. I was hustled aboard and flown up to Trenton. Also lucky for me we landed on the roof of St Francis Hospital so I didn't have to run the gauntlet of the Plum family circus, no doubt established in the waiting room, along with Connie and Lula, Tank and most of the Merry Men. And Joe Morelli.

The hospital people looked dubious when they saw me. I had changed on the plane but was dressed in a grey RMPMC t-shirt, clean but faded light desert cammo combats, jump boots and a shitoad of weapons.

The obstetrician exiting the labor room glanced at my automatic rifle and said, dryly, "Probably you won't need that, Dad."

"I am not your fucking dad, doc."

"It's just an expression, ah, Mr. Manoso."

"Lose it."

"Okaaay." Great, now Steph's doctor is scared shitless.

"How is she?"

"She's fine, the baby is fine, taking its time though. Go ahead, go on in. I'll be back, ah—later. Or tomorrow. The nurses' station has my number." He hustled off, no doubt had an early tee time.

I took a second to change gears—one moment I was a soldier completing a covert mission, now I was supposed to just switch up and be a father?

I walked into the labor room where Stephanie looked a little surprised to see me.

... ... ...

Now Steph says, "What if it's not a boy, Ranger?"

"No problem."

"You wanted a boy right? It might be a girl it could be a girl what if the baby is a girl?

She sounds a little tense. I smile down at her and say, "It doesn't matter, babe. As long as you're both okay and healthy I don't care if the baby is a friggin' chihuahua."

"A-a what? A chihuahua? _Are you out of your fucking mind?_ This is a baby."

I hide my inner wince. Isn't transition the stage when the woman gets abusive? I say, "Bad word choice, babe. You know what I meant, right?"

"Huh."

I gently brush her wild curls off her sweaty forehead and she presses her face into my hand. I sit down on the edge of the hospital bed and hold her through a couple of contractions. She is trying for stoic, but I see the pain that foretells the agony to come.

After a while Steph says, "I'm glad you're here, Ranger."

"Me too." Sort of, though whoever thought up the idea that the dad should be an active participant in birthing was a moron. Or a woman.

"Seems like everything is happening all at once. Even though it took nine months."

"i know."

She says, "I'm scared, Ranger."

"I know. I'm a little nervous here too, Stephanie,"

"Not you, you're always brave and strong."

I say, "The way it works is, you do the thing you're scared shitless of, and you get the courage _after _you do it, not before you do it."

"Do you believe that?"

"Sure." _No. _Keeping my voice quiet but firm, I add, "I believe in _you_, babe. You can do this..._we_ can do it. I promise."

Steph frowns at me. "Prob'ly we've got no choice at point, _babe._"

... ... ...

**"You have a baby girl, Stephanie**," intones the golf-shirted doctor twenty hours later. "Seven pounds, one ounce, 19 inches," adds the nurse.

The second nurse lays the infant on Steph's chest and I touch its hand carefully. "She's beautiful Steph. Our baby girl."

Steph squirms because they are still doing—stuff—down there. She says, "At least she's not a chihuahua."

And the doc and all three nurses look up and say, _"What?"_

I carefully lean over and kiss Steph then the baby. A nurse swaddles the infant in a soft white blanket and hands her to me. I hold her in both hands but she is so tiny that one hand would do. I touch a black silky whorl of hair, admire her red splotchy complexion and infinitely tiny nose, the rosebud mouth. I meet the dark dark eyes of my child, the eyes that see me, know me...and I can feel her presence in my world. _Daddydaddydaddy, here I am! Lookit me! Hello, hello!_

I whisper, "Hello, Zoë Emilia. I love you."

_Of course you do, daddy. I am perfect...Nice gun._

_**the beginning**_

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><p><em><strong>end of story series tbc**_


	5. Chapter 5 Be Careful What You Wish For

*****_**a**_/n This story picks up just after the introductory story here "Shelter from the Storm"; _**The Math Teacher**_ and upcoming **_Mercenaries R Us_** take place about the same time too. Zoe is an infant...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>_

_**.**_

_**Chapter Five ~ Be Careful What You Wish For**_

_**. **_

_[Ranger]_

**Another job, another roof...I find myself saying that a lot lately.** And, oh okay, not really a _roof._ But still.

We are running a surveillance-to-sting operation for a joint task force of the DEA and FBI. This is a Rangeman contract, not a solo clandestine job, and so here we are camped out in a moldy unoccupied apartment across the street from our targets.

I am currently trying to work in-country, so this is me, Tank, and some fed named Bill. Who knew I'd be nostalgic for caves and goat shit? A-stan is looking pretty good to me—probably I'd stand up and cheer if a Taliban a-hole trotted in about now. But no, we are watching a small group of sleaze-bag drug merchants of the apparently Mexican variety.

Sometimes even a man like me—determined, resourceful, can I say smart?—ends up with a situation he's not 100% happy with. When Stephanie found out that she was expecting our baby, I was so effin' thrilled. A baby, a family, a chance to get things right this time—Ranger Manoso was gonna have it all. And so far I have kept my promise to stick around and be supportive. But, well.

I look through my binoculars, checking the street and then the live feed of the cameras we installed in the targets' crappy flat.

And it isn't as if _Steph_ and baby Zoe are tying me down—no, this is all about me, keeping my promises, turning over a new leaf. Being a regular guy. I mull that over, wondering if I am trying to walk in Morelli's grungy sneakers, be something I am not... I rub my forehead, fighting a headache and the fatigue of utter boredom. The "tell" attracts Tank's attention and he glances at me in surprise; I am not a man who usually gives away anything, but the tedium is overwhelming. I swallow a yawn but Bill, the federal agent, picks it up and yawns too.

A couple hours pass. At long last, 'round midnight, our guys come into their place. We listen intently. Three Hispanic males in their late twenties and a couple of bimbo-esque ladies. The men put their guns down on the cluttered coffee table, one guy picks up a small handful of red envelopes, fans them out, shows them to the other guys.

"Think that's some kind of drugs?" asks Bill.

Tank and I turn and stare at him, then redirect ourselves to the monitors. We listen while they open beers, and hang out in the kitchen. Then they all head out of camera range, picked up a moment later by the next camera feed, showing the hall.

We listen, Bill with a perplexed frown that keeps getter bigger.

I say, "We can relax for awhile—the boss is taking a break with the two bimbos and a couple of porn movies, just got 'em in the mail from Netflix."

Bill looks at me, says, "How'd you get that?"

I shrug. Even I know what Netflix is. [films/dvds you order online, come in the mail, if not av in other countries.]

Bill says, "I took Spanish. I didn't understand a word of that. What was it?"

I say, "Quechua, local Incan dialect."

"Where'd you learn that one?" asks Bill.

I answer, "Long story."

Bill grins and motions to our survey cams. The henchman are lolling on the tatty sofa while drug boss is getting busy with his lady friends, eeeeew. Bill says, "I got time."

Tank and I exchange looks again. Tank says, "Uh...well..."

I go back to watching the monitors and say casually, "Go ahead, man. It probably isn't classified anymore."

Tank hides a grins and says again, "Well...," doing reluctant.

Bill looks intrigued, urges Tank, "C'mon, tell me! I sense a story here! And we got time, we'll be here all night with these scumbags."

Tanks fake-hesitates, then begins, " We-e-e-lllll, okay, but it was top secret, so don't repeat this, y'hear?"

Bill nods.

Tank goes on, "We were new in Special Ops and this was a training mission. _They—_" he makes finger quotes, 275 pounds of solid 6'6" muscle, he looks ridiculous— "sent us to Cancun, Mexico, we thought it was gonna be an R & R weekend, but no. They flew us out into the jungle, just me, Ranger and half a dozen college girls, gonna see the ruins at...where was that, Rangeman? Machu Picchu?"

"No. That was Peru," I say coldly, egging him on.

"Oh yeah, road trip to Chichen Itza with a side trip to Tulum, cisterns right? Human sacrifice, and all..."

Bill weighs in, "Isn't that a Mayan site?"

Tank snorts. "That's what they'd like you to think...Anyways, this plane we was on, it was old and rusty, remember that plane, Rangeman?"

I nod. "It was so old the windows opened instead of having air-conditioning, didn't—shit, _couldn't—_fly more than maybe 500 feet above the jungle. Dropped us off in the middle of nowhere."

This part is true and Tank and both grimace.

I listen with half an ear as Tank spins this incredibly long, boring, 100% apocryphal story of being lost in the jungle with these college girls, captured by Incan _cannibals!_ who maybe, _probably_ ate the girls because we never saw them again—_**but **_kept us for sex slaves...!

"Sex slaves! So you did it with...?"

"Yeah, learned a lot. Well, mostly they did it _to_ us, you know what I'm sayin' ?" Tank leered. _Worse than the finger quotes, geez_. "And during our ordeal, Rangeman learned their lingo, _Quechua._ And so he finally got us out. Army woulda given us a medal 'cept we lost the girls...Anyways, we got out of their camp—Mexican Riviera, my skinny black ass!—and all, but man, we wanted the US of A. We walked miles and miles, the jungle seemed like it went on for..."

Bill's eyes were glazing over, lulled by Tank's way too long story and Tank's ever increasing Louisiana accent. Fake Louisiana accent. Like me, Tank is from New York, we went to elementary school together.

A snore interrupts Tank's account of our third week hiking back to Cancun.

Tank is miffed."Well, damn! He asked, didn't he?"

Like I was saying, you gotta be careful what you wish for.

An hour later Bill woke up, all refreshed, took a piss, got some coffee and sat back down beside me. He said, "Those must been the days, my man. You guys must of had an awesome time."

I don't respond.

"I hear you're staying stateside these days though, is that right?" asks Bill, a mean glint in his eyes.

Nothing from me.

"Got a steady woman, new bambino in the house? That's the rumor anyway."

When I remain silent, Bill looks at Tank and says, "Whaddaya think the kid's gonna do to his work ethic, Tank? Can't be easy, up all night on surveillance, home at dawn—the kid is crying, the wife is bitching, probably you won't even get a hot meal at home, let alone some horizontal mambo action. How's that working for you, big shot?" Bill looks back at me and smirks.

He is paying us back for the Mexican recon story.

He says to Tank, "What's he gonna do now? Hard to be a badass when you're the daddy."

I put my hand on my gun and turn to face the idiot federal agent, but Tank rests his big hand on Bill's shoulder, draws him aside. Tank whispers loudly, "I don't think he planned that far ahead, Bill. He gonna play it by ear, probably."

_[sigh]_ It didn't used to be like this. I used to get respect.

Bill says calmly, "I think the drug delivery is gonna go down just about—**now!"**

Across the filthy rain-slicked street burst out the sounds of shouts and pounding footsteps, _"Go go go!" Freeze, freeze!" _We hear them in surround sound, via the hidden mics and through the thin, drafty glass of the dirty windows. The commands are repeated in Spanish then again in both Spanish and English.

Tank and I look at each other and I sigh again.

_Quechua, guys. Remember? Quechua._

* * *

><p><strong>the end of this story series tbc**


	6. Chapter 6 The Crisis

**Yes! Hurricane Irene missed us at The Beach! Thx for your notes! sunny**

*NOTE* Thank you for the reviews and comments! **Sometimes a reader asks me an interesting question** but leaves an anonymous review, which is fine but then I can't respond. For those of you who feel my Ranger is cold, distant, doesn't love Stephanie...pls let me assure you: he _does_ love her. And my stories always have a R & S HEA, at least implied.

BUT I will never write a sappy, emotional, vocal, sloppily-in-love Ranger, my mercenary Ranger doesn't do that! And actually neither does my Stephanie. They may not be vocal but their love is deep and strong and perfect. I also direct you to my stories like The Price is Right, Take a Chance, and Jane's Dilemma where I think their love is shown in a realistic (for fanfic), slightly disfunctional, modern, adult way. You want sappy Ranger who talks a lot, well...he's elsewhere in fanfiction, enjoy! love sunny

* * *

><p><strong>an 2 Back to school! This story jumps ahead a little bit, Zoe is headed to second grade!** I think all the stories from now on will be tied to calendar year (ie Xmas stories in December!); the chronology may be mixed up but I always tell you how old Zoe is.

For anyone who doesn't live in the US, Staples is an all-purpose office supplies/ computer supplies (ink cartridges/ paper etc) chain of stores here. Not sure if they are all over the US or other countries. Kinda like McDonalds for office stuff/ school supplies.

* * *

><p><strong>Shelter from the Sorm<strong>

**.**

**Chapter Six ~ The Crisis**

**.**

_[Stephanie]_

**"But Mommy! One of the folders HAS to be purple!** See, here's the list. Loooook!" Zoë wasn't whining but she had that determined look on her face.

"I couldn't get purple, sweetie, I got you two blue ones instead."

"Steph, that won't work," chimed in Julie. "If the teacher says red, green, yellow, blue, and purple—you gotta have red, green, yellow, blue, and purple... NO substitutions."

Julie was spending a semester here in Jersey, taking Princeton's accelerated math program for gifted teens. Her other classes would be at the same private school where Zoë was about to enter second grade.

"I'm not a baby any more, mommy. I have a list and rules," said Zoe.

"But... Well, Julie, what did Rachel do if she couldn't find some special supply on _your_ list?"

Julie shrugged. "Never happened."

_Of course not._

Zoë's eyes were filling with tears. I was devastated! I let my baby down, I was a bad mom. I knew this would happen! Why did I insist on doing the back to school shopping myself? Ranger had glanced at the list and offered his infinitesimal shrug. Said, _Give the list to Ella, babe. No problem. _But nooooo, I had to be an involved parent. I'm an idiot...

Julie said carefully, "Steph? Are you okay? You have such a look on your face..."

I drew a deep breath.

"I'll call Valerie and ask her. Or maybe Mary Lou." They were both into the mom thing. "You guys go get ready, we'll get a list of stationary places and we'll have a purple notebook mission. Okay?"

"Folder, mommy."

"Yeah, folder."

"Yay! Go, mommy!" The girls ran off to change out of their summery shorts and flipflops.

This so sucked big time! The list was three pages long. Besides the notebooks, um, _folders!—_Zoë needed an extra-large 500 sheet pack of lined 2- (not 3)-holed binder paper; 25 pencils, #2; 4 erasers (2 pink rubber, 1 white plastic, 1 grey kneaded, fer crissakes); a laptop and charger; crayons; colored pencils; set of colored markers; dry erase pens, 6, blue; English dictionary; Spanish dictionary. 12 Sharpie pens, blue not black. 25 erasable blue Bic pens. Paperclips, hole puncher; brads!-3 boxes; 6 spiral notebooks, single subject, wide lines _only_. File tabs. Backpack. And a box of Kleenex. Our tax dollars can't, like, buy a box of damn tissues for the class? I wondered if she needed her own toilet paper and they forgot that on the list.

Oh wait, it's a private school...our Harvard level tuition can't stretch to a communal box of tissues? What do they do with twenty-plus grand per child anyway?

Everything on the list, excluding her for-achool-only second iPad that was to be used as the laptop requirement, cost $376.23! And it would all go lost or be shared with her friends before Halloween.

Do not get me started on the uniform issue.

... ... ...

**I called Valerie first.** "Omigod, Steph, that's awful. You have to find one or poor Zoë will start the year with a black mark against her! Teachers have rules!"

"I'll sic Ranger on that woman if I have to."

"Even Ranger probably can't override the school supply list rules! And um, you know...he might think you should have got the purple one too, look how he dresses his men. You never see them in say, a red t-shirt! Or even grey."

"There were no purple ones left," I screamed.

"Not my fault, Stephanie." She hung up with a bang.

I dialed Mary Lou. "Omigod, Steph, that's awful. You have to find one or poor Zoë will start the year with a black mark against her! Teachers have rules!"

What is _with_ these people?

"Where can I go, what should I do?" My voice was wobbling.

"Well, maybe try driving out of the area, like to Pennsylvania or Virginia, go to all the malls and Staples and so on. Their schools' lists may be different..."

"And if that doesn't work? C'mon, ML, I'm desperate."

"Well, you could buy purple paint and try to paint one that's the wrong color...Or, oh I know!—you can buy purple construction paper and glue it on the cover of a bad folder."

"In a perfect world there would be NO bad folders," I moaned.

"You can't fight 'em, Steph. You have to be proactive. You gotta call the school on August first when they're printing up the lists, or getting them posted online. You gotta work ahead. Then you run right to Staples. No dillydallying, no saying your next FTA apprehension is more important!"

"Okay, okay. Remind me next year, pleeeeze?"

"Good luck, sweetie." Mary Lou hung up.

I sat for a minute and carefully wrote two lists. Best case scenario: Staples/ in PA: Purple folder. And: emergency list: purple paint. Purple crepe, no, no, XXXX, _construction_ paper! Glue stick.

Then I had a little pep talk with myself: _You can do this, Steph_. (I channeled Ranger's voice in my head.) Okay, great. I went on-line and printed out a map showing the GPS coordinates of every Staples store within a 200 mile radius of Trenton.

Wow, what a market share, those Staples guys are _everywhere_!

I yelled, "Girls? Are you guys about ready?"

... ... ...

**"Look, mommy!"**

_Geez, motherhood sucks sometimes. If it's not one thing, it's another._

Silence. Then Julie said, "She looked so sugary in those pastelly shorts and stuff she was wearing. She looked like a baby. I thought she'd look cute dressed up more like, well, me. Like a Rangeman babe."

Julie had found every solid black item in Zoë's closet. Zoë wore a black ruffled miniskirt and a black tee-shirt, with black leggings and black sneakers. And Julie wore a similar outfit, though her skirt was narrow black denim and her shoes—boots—were black high-laced Doc Martins.

The thing is, it was 96 effin' degrees out! But okay, I'm good with black clothes, I'm used to black clothes, right? But Julie had made up their faces: white powder on their cafe au lait skin; black eyeliner and shadow, blood red lipstick. And grey nail polish. Like a friggin' corpse.

My little Goth princesses. Their dad would either be horrified...or thrilled, who knows.

"Omigod, are you wearing anything not black?"

"Just my underpants, mommy." Zoë hiked up her skirt to show her little white cotton _Thursday_ panties. Embroidered by Ella.

At least they don't say _Rangeman._

_**the end/series tbc**_


	7. Chapter 7 In the Event of an Emergency

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**a/n: **It's September**...**Back to school nights looming in our lives? The dreaded teachers' conferences? Imagine how Ranger feels!

* * *

><p><strong>IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY, <em>please call -<em>**

**_._**

_[Ranger]_

**''Mr. and Mrs. Manoso, please come in.''** The headmistress of Fernwood Country Day School gestured to the visitors chairs and sat herself behind her big mahogany desk. She smiled coolly and added, ''Coffee? Bottled water?''

Steph said, ''Not right now. Thank you for seeing us so quickly.''

The woman, Katherine Hitachi, dragged her eyes off me and said, ''Yes, I was happy to be able to find the time. I understand that Zoë had a rather unhappy day here yesterday...?" Her voice trailed off as if that were inconceivable and Steph's eyes narrowed.

_Unhappy day_ seemed to be putting it mildly, in my opinion.

Yesterday was my day to pick up Zoë after school. The littlest children always filed out first and their parents or caregivers had to be on hand to greet them. Security at the school was fairly tight, it's one of the reasons we chose it. I waited at the curb, leaning on my Cayenne's bumper, ignoring the leers of the mommies and nannies. Geez, you'd think they never saw a man before, they looked _hungry_, like they wanted to eat me up. Yuck. I glanced around the crowds of adults and marked the positions of Zoë's bodyguards, two of my best young Rangeman operatives. They didn't go into the school with Zoë but they did discreetly keep watch. I put my sunglasses on and frowned, tried to broadcast scary vibes and hoped that the Rangeman guys didn't have to rescue _me._

Then my little princess appeared. Usually Zoë ran to me screaming _daddydaddydaddy _and threw herself at me. Today she ran to me and said just once, ''_Daddy,''_ and held up her arms for a hug. I picked her up and she immediately clutched my neck, hiding her face in my shoulder._ Hmmm._ ''What's up, baby?'' I said, kissing her cheek and leaning back to see her face. She shrugged and popped her thumb in her mouth, hid her face again.

Zoë hasn't sucked her thumb for over a year but I didn't comment. I buckled her into her booster seat, cursing the NJ law that required her to be in the back seat. As we drove home I looked in the rearview mirror and said quietly, ''How was your day, chica?''

Shrug.

I added, ''What did you do today?''

''Had 'ssembly.''

I nodded. She went on. ''It was about police officers, how they are supposed to help little kids. Then we went back to our room and had a, a...a cussing group.''

''Cussing?'' I asked.

''You know, when you 'cuss what the people said or did.''

''Discussion?''

''Uh huh. And Ms Davis asked if we got lost or scared, who should we look for to help us.'' I nodded. ''An' I said I'd look for mommy or daddy or Uncle Tank or my Rangeman guys.''

''That's fine, baby.''

''Yes but _she_ said, ''_Well, what if they weren't there?_ An' I said they always _are_ there so it wasn't a problem. I said my daddy would always take good care of me and that I'd always be safe.''

_Shit._

''Then Mary Amber Barnhardt said, _Well, everyone knows_ my big sister Julie got kidnapped and maybe my daddy wasn't such a hero after all.'' Zoë's voice wobbled at the end.

''You do know Julie was fine, right? Your mommy helped me bring her home,'' I said quietly.

_Of course Julie had to shoot the asshole and save herself—and me—really. But let's not go there right now._

The dark curly head in my mirror nodded. I said, ''Then what happened?''

"I don't know, daddy, I wasn't born yet, then."

sigh. "Not with Julie, chica. What happened in class, in the discussion?"

''Joey Morelli said that his daddy would help too, if I ever needed him.''

''That's true.'' Morelli would do anything for Stephanie's child, probably any child. Good man, good cop...married to someone else now, thank god.

"...And that since his daddy is a policeman, maybe we could go to recess instead of talking about bad stuff. And Ms Davis said _Good idea_ and that was the end.''

_The end, my ass._

* * *

><p><strong>Now I fixed my best glare on Mrs. Hitachi<strong> and said, ''I don't send my daughter to a private school that costs more than Harvard undergrad so that she can experience _unhappy days_.''

''Well, of course not! But our personal safety program is very highly regarded. I have had no complaints ever.''

''You do now.''

''Mr. Manoso, I think it is—ah—delightful—that your daughter thinks you're some kind of superhero. But you do after all want her prepared for real life.''

''Zoë is four years old, Mrs. Hitachi.''

''Actually, it is Dr. Hitachi. I have a PhD—early childhood.''

I took a moment to unravel her bad grammar and decided that unlike Zoë's Uncle Anthony this woman did not get a PhD at an early age but that her degree was in the study of early childhood development.

I said, ''Whatever.''

She ignored me and went on, ''I am sure you too think it is important that a child thinks of a policeman as her friend, someone she can trust? As I am sure you do too. I mean, as a respected adult citizen, what do _you_ think when you see an officer?''

''I think _Oh look, my tax dollars at work, coming to arrest me_.''

Stephanie gasped and then glared at me but Hitachi forced a smile and an inappropriate giggle and said, ''Oh surely you're joking! I understand from the background check we do on all our potential students that you are very highly thought of in the finest circles! Not just here in Hamilton County, but in Washington and NYC.''

She had dollar signs in her eyes.

Then she looked at Steph and added, ''And I understand that you and Detective Morelli have a very close relationship!''

Steph said, ''Excuse me?'' and rummaged in her big Coach bag, I was hoping not looking for her gun. We'd left our weapons locked in the Porsche. They were, rightly so, forbidden on school grounds. It was a state law, not just this woman's idea. It didn't bother me because, after all, _it's not like I need a gun, people._

I thought the whole thing over carefully. I said, ''I don't want to pull Zoë out of her school, that would frighten and upset her even more. And right now I don't have any good answers to the situation, beyond asking for your assurance that this will not happen again.''

Hitachi nodded. ''Zoë is a wonderful child, we are very happy to have her. She is extremely outgoing and charming, and oh!—so very pretty! She does look a lot like you, doesn't she, Mr. Manoso? Truly beautiful...''

Now I narrowed my eyes, _Enough,_ I thought.

Hitachi, oblivious, continued, ''And very intelligent, too. I think when we do our kindergarten placement testing in the early spring we'll find that she is _very gifted_. And she needs a school like Fernwood to nurture that.''

Steph said, ''I don't know.''

Hitachi looked at some papers on her desk. ''I see Zoë did come into school today so hopefully the assembly will have positive long term effects.''

''Yeah, right,'' said Steph, ''as opposed to the short term effects, meaning that my daughter spent the evening sucking her thumb , eating birthday cake and watching _Gossip Girl_.''

''You let her watch _Gossip Girl _!'' gasped Hitachi.

Steph said, ''_You_ told her_ she could be kidnapped_!''— mocking the woman.

''And cake? I didn't realize it was her birthday.''

Steph said coldly, ''It wasn't!''

I said, ''Let it go.'' I thanked Hitachi for her time and we left. In the car I said to Stephanie, ''Any ideas?''

''No. Being a parent is hard, isn't it? I just hope...''

''Babe. She'll be fine.''

And of course she was. However Mary Amanda Barnhardt, the nasty litle twit who told Zoë I'm not a superhero, came down with an unexpected, and fortunately mild, case of chicken pox.

_Just a coincidence. _

Really.

* * *

><p><strong>the end of story series tbc**


	8. Chapter 8 Inked

**Shelter from the Storm**

**a/n With apologies to everyone with body ink! The views here-in are not necessarily mine—it's just a story! **

* * *

><p><strong>INKED<strong>

**.**

_[Ranger]_

_._

**My private cell phone vibrated** on the mahogany desktop in my private office at Rangeman. I pressed the _on_ button and speaker function and continued with my paperwork.

Nothing from the little phone speaker so I finally said, "Yes?"

"Dude. Your phone manners suck big-time."

_And you called me to tell me? Is this a test? _I grumped silently.

I waited. Anthony sighed into his own speaker phone and said, "No, I called because, well, ah...What's wrong?"

I leaned back and rubbed a hand across my face. _What, I was alone, who'd know?_ Sometimes I totally understood Steph's ongoing annoyance with having her mind read.

Anthony said, "C'mon, man, talk. Waves of tension are wafting through the stratosphere even as you, um_**—**__don't__** —**_speak."

"I have a problem with Julie."

Silence, conveying concern and shock, then, "What."

"Nothing serious, she's fine, it's just that I got a call from Rachel earlier..."

... ... ... ...

**The call from Rachel was less pleasant **than I was accustomed to. Usually Rachel and I get along fine_**—**_or at least cordially. _Okay—_I guess that's the word, we get along _okay._

"Yes, Rachel. How are you?" I was trying, she too hated my curt phone manners.

"Oh I am just fine, Ranger. Fine! It's your daughter that has the problem," she said sarcastically.

Okay, so just shoot me now...I said stupidly, "Zoë? What...?"

"Not Zoë! Your daughter Julie! Did you totally forget you have another child?"

That was unfair. I was confused because she never, in almost fourteen years, called Julie MY daughter.

After a beat or two of silence Rachel said, "I'm sorry, Ranger. I'm just so upset! She's at that age, she just will not listen! She says I'm a boring stay at home mom and what do I know anyway." Rachel seemed to stifle a sob.

"Go on."

"She wants to get a tattoo! For her birthday."

"And?"

"And! Are you out of your freakin' mind? She's a child!"

"And...?"

"Well, can you talk to her, talk her out of it?"

"What do I know about tattoos, Rachel? Maybe it's the _in_ thing for teenagers..."

"It is NOT! It's popular with—you know_, those_ kinds of people."

"What kind of people?"

"Dirty. Dangerous. Your kind of people. Like that boy in your office with the teardrop or the snake guy with flaming skull."

"Uh huh."

"So—you'll talk to her?"

"I guess."

... ... ... ...

**Now I recounted an edited version** of the conversation to Anthony. I didn't include the dirty people part, I didn't want to hurt his feelings, him having a lot of ink and all.

Anthony said, "So how do you feel about this?"

_What are you, my shrink? _"I can't decide."

I have no strong personal dislike of tattoos, but never wanted any myself. I have scars; I don't need tatts to commemorate things.

"What does she wanna have done, anyway? Maybe a teardrop like Hector's? Not many girls her age can brag that they killed a man..."

"No, Rachel said she wants a little flower or something...a butterfly?"

"A butterfly?" said the man with all the blue and black tribal designs. I could feel him thinking _eeeeew_ from 75 miles away.

We sat in silence for awhile and thought this over. Anthony said, "What birthday? Isn't she like gonna be fourteen?"

"Yeah."

"No reputable artist will ink a child of that age, Ranger. Probably wouldn't even if her mom went with her. I think the legal age is maybe sixteen in most states, or maybe eighteen. Most people wait til they're 18 so they don't need their mommies to go with..."

"I'm sure she could find someone, for enough money. In South Beach especially, maybe _not_ so reputable."

"Oh that's nasty."

"Yes."

"Sooo...you'd rather she didn't do it, I am guessing here."

"I won't object when she's older, although I have to admit I find ink on women distracting. I always wonder how it will look when they're 80."

"Not an issue I ever had, being eighty."

"Yeah, me neither." We shared a moment, then I added, "But you know what I'm saying?"

"No but go on, man."

"I don't like to come down all hard on my kids, be the authoritative dad who lays down the law."

"Yeah, that'd suck."

"...I'm not their officer in charge, giving orders. I need an angle, a way to get her to drop the idea. To just have me forbid it, that's asking for trouble at her age."

"Dude, you have a bazooka. Stop thinking Prague Police and start thinking Playstation. Blow shit up! "

"What?" _WTF?_

"It's from a movie, bro. _Triple X?_ Man I love that movie, lotta philospohy in there. It like means you gotta make an impression, talk on her level...Remember how she told Rachel that she was a dull stick in the mud?"

"Stay at home mom."

"Whatever. Well, you can easily shoot this tattooing sucker down. Blow it away, dude!"

"I repeat, _Huh?"_

"Tell her that butterfly tattoos are boring, so over, so...millenium. Like, too mainstream."

"Mainstream?"

"Yeah, so, like uncool. Every girl in the world has a stupid butterfly or a rose, didn't you ever notice?"

"No."

"Trust me."

"What if she goes for the teardrop?"

"Then she'll never be on the cover of _Vogue_."

... ... ... ...

**Later I imparted Anthony's word**s of tattoo wisdom to Julie. And held my breath.

"The cover of Vogue?"

"Yeah..."

"I'm going to be fourteen. Maybe I'm too old to model?"

_Oh heaven help me._ "Chica. What about the tattoo? No tattoos, okay, baby?

"Okay, daddy. It probably really hurts anyways, right?"

"Yeah."

"So do you think I could have a Juicy Couture bookbag instead? They're only three hundred dollars on eBay."

"Sure."

"Daddy—about the tattoo? I just wanted to see what mom would say..."

_Poor Rachel. Poor me. Checkmated again by the master._

* * *

><p><strong>the end of the story series tbc**


	9. Chapter 9 Sex Wax  Yum!

**Shelter from The Storm**

**.**

**.**

a/n For those of you who may not know "Sex Wax" is a real product, it is put on surf/snowboards/ hockey sticks to, ah, enhance perormance. LOL.

Zoe is four.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sex Wax —<strong>__**Yum! **_

_**.**_

_[Ranger]_

**I sat in my public, _not_ top secret conference **room and listened to my lawyer and my employee Zachary Castedos discuss Castedos's recent arrest.

Zack was on Rangeman business at the time and he was trying hard to justify everything as part of the job. He's a big beefy ex-Marine who is usually assigned to personal protection clients. And yes, he is good. But the other night he maybe got carried away a little.

Now he said huffily, ''I do my job! Just like I am ordered. No one I am assigned to guard has ever complained about lack of service from me."

I maintained a neutral attitude and tried to go along for the ride.

Adam Keller, our criminal attorney, looked over his files once again. My half-brother Anthony was sitting further down the conference table, just hanging out, showing his support for Castedos who was an old friend from, uh, back in the day.

Keller said, "Just so we're clear, you stole a car, shot a bouncer, and had sex with two women?"

Anthony grinned. It did sound like the set-up for a bad bar joke, but...

Zachary frowned. "The women were afterward. I hope they are not complaining?"

"No. However..." said Keller.

Zach interrupted again. "It really didn't go as bad as it could have."

"A girl is dead, Zack," intoned Keller. So serious.

Zack said, "I didn't say it went perfectly. And she wasn't a girl, she was a whacko. She thought just because she had a gig as a club bouncer she had a right to stalk any celebrity she took a fancy to. Our client had an OOP [order of protection] on her but, no—she held him at gunpoint and kidnapped him. In my Rangeman Explorer!"

I stifled a sigh.

Zachary added, "And I only borrowed that car. I didn't steal it. I had to chase them—my priority has to be the client."

"Your priority—and yours, Ranger —should be to obey the law." Keller leveled stern looks at me and my employee both.

_Fuck that._

When the grab went down last night, Zach took a set of keys from the parking valet kid and he took off after the woman and our client . In someone's new Lexus, go figure. Totally justified.

I stared Keller into submission. He paled and buried his nose in the file. "It was raining and the woman panicked," read Keller from the police report.

"She didn't panic, she was a freakin' psycho, Adam!" yelled Zack. "The woman rolled my Explorer down an embankment in the rain. Smashed into the overpass abutment. I was following and she crawled out of the wreck and tried to shoot me! What the hell was I supposed to do, let her kill me and our client?"

_Not the client. Please._

Keller made a note and nodded."Self-defense and defense of a third party in a life or death situation. I'll run it by the DA."

Yes, our client survived. And he was grateful. He told the arresting officers that the female stalker had both a knife and a handgun. And these were indeed found at the scene. But the state troopers arrested Zach anyway, mostly for the stolen car.

"The GTA we'll call exigent circumstances." [grand theft auto]

"Sounds good." I glanced at my watch. 3 PM. I could hear a tiny high voice in the hall. I stood, said, "Time's up, Keller. Fix this fast."

He stood too and was saying, "Yes, okay," when my daughter Zoë appeared on the scene.

"Daddydaddydaddy!"

"Hey, baby."

''Hi, Zacky! Hi, Mr. Keller. Hi, Uncle Anthony!"

My employees and Anthony said hello, but instead of leaving they all watched Zoë, like the curtain was going up on the best show in town.

_Yeah. Well. She's cute._

I looked around. "Where's Killer?" Killer is her little dog.

"Oooh, Daddy! Killer was ever so bored today!"

"Yeah?"

"And his tummy hurt."

"Why?" asked Keller.

"Uncle Anthony left a tin of sex wax in the sofa cushions and Killer ate ALL."

We all grimaced.

"Even the jar?" I asked.

"No, he just licked it clean. That's how I knew what it was called. Daddy! What's sex wax?"

Lucky for me that question isn't as difficult as it sounds.

But Anthony stepped up to answer anyway. "It's like you know, surfboard sticky wax, Zee. So you don't fall off? You've seen us use it on our boards."

Zoë nodded. "Why's it called _sex_ wax?"

"No clue."

I interrupted to ask. "So where is the dog?'

"He said he needed a walk, he said he was gonna walk over to Gramma Ellen's house and lie on the sofa with Grandpa til his tummy stopped hurting."

"You let him out alone! !" Anthony sounded upset.

I said, "Baby, he's a little dog, he can't go out alone."

Shrug. "Tell him that. "

For once I was speechless; a megabucks show quality pug is not a creature that should roam the streets unattended. The dog is utterly defenseless and gentle, though smart. Pugs aren't intended for hot urban late September days either; they are designed to loll on silk cushions in front of air conditioning vents.

"Excuse me, Ranger." Vince knocked politely on the side of the open door. "That dude Mooner? He came by just now? Brought back Ms Zoë's dog."

Vince leaned into the room and set the fat little pug down on my charcoal grey plush broadloom carpet. When a pug is happy their ears are perked, and their little donut tails are held erect. Poor Killer looked sweaty and sad, his eyes bulged ominously and his little pink tongue was hanging out.

Vince stood there hopelessly brushing cream-colored hairs off his black uniform.

''Killy!'' Zoë ran over and hugged the dog. Anthony sighed and stood up, "Zee, c'mon. Look at the poor guy. He's dying of thirst."

"We have to get him drinkies! Should he have Kool-Aid?"

"Yes. No. Water, not Kool-Aid." Anthony scooped up the dog —he loves dogs especially the family pugs —and he grabbed Zoë's hand. They left, but I could hear Anthony, unusually stern, lecturing Zoë about not letting her doggy out in hot weather."Or like ever, Zee. He needs supervision, he's just little. What were you thinking?"

Keller watched them leave."That Moon guy recognized the dog?"

My man Vince looked up from his t-shirt front and nodded. "He's a good guy."

"Oh, right. Mooner? —he's the good drug dealer kid?" Keller turned to me. "Your wife's friend?"

"We don't think of him as a drug dealer, Adam. We try to think of Mooner as, uh, Steph's somewhat mentally challenged childhood friend."

"Right."

I looked at Vince and Zack and Keller, all standing there bemused and fascinated by life in the Manoso ménage. "Don't you guys have work to do? Get going."

And like Killer, the men hit the road.

_the end of the story/ series tbc_

* * *

><p><strong>WHY IS IT CALLED SEX WAX?<strong>

**_from Wikipedia:_**

''In the beginning, Zog [Hertzog, I forget his real first name] asked friend and artist, Hank Pitcher, to design a label for the new surf wax. Not one to shy away from controversy, Hank came up with a visually intriguing logo bearing the name "Sex Wax". Hank liked the name because it sounded phonetically cool. Zog liked it because it was attention-grabbing, absurd, and a great spoof on Madison Avenue's not so subtle attempts to use sex to sell a product.''


	10. Chapter 10 Earthquake

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**.**

**a/n Zoe is 4 **[this chapter is out of order, it should have gone before "In the Event of an Emergency", I ll move it later on...]

Enjoy! and thanks for all the nice reviews and PMs!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10 ~ Earthquake<strong>

**. **

_White House Situation Room August 23, 2xxx__._

_[Ranger]_

**My personal cell phone vibrates. **_**We**_** are here** at the White House; the president is not. This is simply the end game of a long day. We don't really need the president here anyway. The chain of command, the unfurling of events, ensures a certain protocol whether he sits here beside us or is bike-riding up on the Vineyard.

I look at my phone and tell General XXX, "I should take this."

He nods.

I walk out into the hall. "Hey, babe."

"Hey, Ranger.''

"Is...[everything okay]...?"

Steph interrupts. "I'm here with Zoë..."

"Daddydaddydaddy! We had an earthquake! I was having lunch! The whole kitchen twirled around and Ella said _Madre de dios!_ And it kept happening and she was gonna make us run down the stairs but Uncle Tank called and said it was all okay and no worries! And then me and mommy wrote about it on our Facebook page!"

"I know, baby, I saw it."

''You saw the earthquake!''

_Yeah._

"No, I mean I saw your Facebook page," I tell her.

Stephanie had come up with the brilliant idea of using Facebook as a simple way for us to keep in touch when we maybe can't call or text. We leave updates and comments, some coded,usually with fake names/false IDs, on their "wall". I was glad to show Zoë that Facebook had a function other than a forum for overly hormonal teenage girls to pursue the current boy-crush in their life, be it a boy band singer or the kid in the next seat in French class.

Zoë was still talking. "We called Aunt Olivia to see if a Sue Nanny was coming but she looked out her window and said everyone on the beach at Monomoy was just lying there getting lobster red. No big wave or anything scary, she said. So that's okay, right?"

"Yeah."

Muffled talking. Then Stephanie came on. "So, Ranger. The news people say this is the strongest earthquake in over a hundred years."

"And?"

"And well, you know...?"

"Sorry, babe. It's classified."

"That's what I thought."

"Love you.''

''Love you too.''

''I love you daddy!'' screams Zoë in the background. And we disconnect.

... ... ...

_**earlier this morning, Washington DC...**_

**We returned from our recent 'stan job via Andrews Air Force Base** outside DC. That job had involved operatives from diverse agencies and AAFB was neutral territory. As the rest our group dispersed, I looked around for a Rangeman black SUV. Instead I saw Colonel Williams, our general's aide and general lackey. His presence did not bode well.

"Geez, like I hoped to at least get a shower and some breakfast before something else went sideways in the world," groused Anthony. We stood shoulder to shoulder on the tarmac and let the colonel come to us.

"We have a situation."

_Of course you do._

"The general wants you people at the White House ASAP."

_Of course he does._

Silently we got into Williams' cheap government sedan. A couple miles went by in silence . Then I asked, ''Care to share?''

''The general will brief you when you're on site.''

I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

Fifteen minutes late we pulled up at the White House's back door, were waved through by guys in black Navy SEAL SWAT outfits.

I said, ''Isn't the president on vacation?''

''Yes, but..." answered Williams uselessly.

Inside we were ushered not to the bunker-like Situation Room but to the Oval Office. General XXX detached himself from the worried group inside and gave us a solemn nod. "Let's talk out here a second," he said.

?

Silence then the general heaved a huge sigh. "Remember it was the president's birthday a few weeks ago?"

We shrug, not too interested.

''Okay so you guys know what a dorm refrigerator is? Like a hotel mini fridge?''

We nod. Anthony's sister Jilly has them in everyone's bedroom at the beach house, probably to keep guests from wandering into her pristine kitchen at midnight—but a nice touch.

''So the president has been drinking a lot of health supplement things and for his birthday the First Lady gave him his own mini fridge for the Oval Office. It was installed this week while they're away..."

We nod again.

''And today when the White House steward opened it up to put the drinks inside—well, come. Let me show you."

We followed him into the room full of silently desperate men. They stood aside and the general carefully opened the door of the little stainless steel box. We stared.

"Okay so there's a bomb in there, dude." Anthony finally stated the obvious. "And like it's a basketball thing like a neutron-type bomb, the old kind used by the Soviets...in which case, probably you should close the door so we don't all get radiation poisoning.''

''Right now it is not engaged and the lead liner added to the fridge seems to be stopping any leaking of radiation," the general told us.

"What idiot installed the fridge without checking the inside?"

"Some carpenter. His, uh, credentials weren't checked as well as perhaps they could have been."

"Stupid mistakes like that will get us all killed, sir."

"Let's move on, Colonel. We have a bomb! Here and now."

"So?" I asked.

"We heard from this jihadist terrorist group. They say they have remotely programmed the bomb to go off. They say at 1200 hours today, the bomb will start, uh, ticking? And it will detonate about an hour later."

He closed the door, looked expectantly at me.

A few beats go by. I didn't bother to ask _why?_ Jihadis do whatever the hell they want, for no good reason. Finally I said, "What? Call the bomb squad, sir. Call the bomb agency, what's it called, NEST?"

"Too late. And anyway, they—they're NEST guys," he waved a hand at the white-faced people in the room. "They have no clue what to do."

We stood there thinking.

"It's gonna start, like ticking in about three hours,'' Anthony told me helpfully.

''And?''

We were interrupted. "General, sir, we have the president on the video screen.''

We turned and looked at the big screen which was broadcasting live from Martha's Vineyard. The president was wearing pink golf pants and golf gloves. He leaned on his 5-iron and said, "Any ideas, Carlos? Mr. Stewart?"

Anthony looked him over then said, "I'd go with a seven iron on the back green at Edgartown, sir. The wind off the ocean, you know..."

"The bomb, guys, the bomb?"

I had no clue and wished I was far far away like he was.

Anthony though was busy thinking, not just about golf, either, thank god.

He told the president, "A bomb that size will level about four square miles here in DC and the fallout will render the entire southeastern US uninhabitable for hundreds of years."

''Yes, we know that,'' griped the image of the president.

''Okay so, like, what we need to do is contain the motherfucker.''

''Excuse me?''

''Uh, sorry, Mr. President. So I think we should put it on your heli and fly it out to Virginia. In the mountains near, uh, Mineral? there's an old deep underground Cold War bunker dug into the bedrock there. From NORAD days. [NORAD was a missile defense system in the 50s & 60s]

The general said, ''How do you know that? That was so top-secret, it isn't even a red file.''

Anthony, top-secret hacker extraordinaire shrugged. ''I came across it when I was a kid, General. I saw _everything_, man. You guys have no secrets, not from me, anyways." He grinned happily. Everyone else scowled.

The president told him, "Go on."

"We'll fly the bomb inside, slam the double bombproof doors and Bam! It only wrecks an old unused, antiquated government white elephant. Easy-peasy. Saves you the demolition costs of that bunker too; it's a hazard for hikers, man.''

''Won't it—do anything?''

''Like what, sir?''

''Like shake the ground or something?''

Anthony shrugged. ''Sure, yeah, people may feel it."

Now I weighed in, ''It's a good solution, sir.''

''And the blast? When people feel that?''

''Uh. You tell everyone it was an earthquake, like,'' said Anthony

The president considered. ''Okay. That may work. My press staff can sell an earthquake. Good thinking. You know, in another life, Mr. Stewart, you would have made a excellent politician.''

''Yes, and you an excellent golfer, sir.''

The president tried to decide if he'd been insulted then moved on. ''General? Is it a go for you?''

''Sounds like a plan, sir.''

''Your country thanks you both,'' the president said to me and Anthony.

Anthony nodded, ''Just like, bring me a jar of Vineyard Blue Clover Honey, man. It's the best. That's all the thanks I need."

The president shut down the feed.

... ... ...

**Fifteen minutes later Anthony is happily flying** the Marine One heli towards the bunker in Virginia. He tells me, ''Dude! I always wanted to fly this baby!''

''But not with a bomb in back, bro."

"It's just so cool."

"There's plenty of marine pilots could have flown this down there, you know," I point out. I'm not sure a jar of honey is sufficient payment for risking our lives and the possibility that our future children might have two heads or something. "Not to mention you reminded them of your hacker skills."

Anthony looks at me, "You've never complained about my methods before.''

"I'm not complaining."

"You're not? What do you call this? "

_I never complain! How am I complaining? When do I ever complain about you playing Halo2, of all things, at three in the morning when we're on a covert job? Or your endless electronics mess, your general lack of hygiene—geez you track sand everywhere!—or the fact that you steal my clothes? _

I don't say anything out loud. He catches my thoughts and grins. _You're jealous cos Steph thought I looked hot in your RMPMC fatigues._

_Whatever._

We're goofing on each other because we don't want to focus on the bomb we have back in the cargo bay aka the president's cushy cabin. Now we lapse into silence as we approach the NORAD site. We land smoothly, the marines in back run the fridge inside, we slam the many bombproof doors and haul ass into the sky. Just as we land back at the White House awhile later, we feel the ground rumble underfoot.

This time we head to the Situation Room where we assure everyone all is well again in their, our, world. My phone rings and I take the call from Steph and Zoe.

... ... ...

**Later, Binky is waiting in my Cayenne** on Pennsylvania Avenue.

We get in and he says, "Whoa, you guys feel that earlier? Earthquake. Whoever heard of earthquakes here on the east coast?"

We look at him and shrug. I say "Let's go home."

_**the end of the story, the earthquake was real, series tbc**_

* * *

><p>an my knowledge about bombs and so on is zero; sorry if it is glaringly wrong! The idea of the bomb in the bunker has been in a number of recent thrillers...


	11. Chapter 11 One Killer is All You'll Ever

**Shelter from the Storm**

* * *

><p><strong>an Zoe is four, maybe five. Enjoy!**

**.**

**.**

**Chapter 11 ~One Killer is All You'll Ever Need**

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**The job had been short, swift, violent—**and successful. Ranger let himself into the penthouse apartment on Haywood Street on a rainy Friday afternoon in October. He dropped his keys in the silver dish, dropped his duffle and weapons case in the foyer and walked through to the kitchen.

He said, "Something smells good."

"Daddydaddydaddy! You are home!" Zoë hurled herself at him and he scooped her up for a hug and a hello kiss.

"Did you miss me, baby?"

"You were gone so long!"

"Sweetheart, it was only a few days. What are you ladies up to tonight?" He looked over Zoë's head at Ella who stood by the sink smiling a fond welcome.

She said, "Welcome home. It's Britta's day off and Stephanie had to go out."

Zoë chimed in, "We are making pie! Many pies! Three! And mommy saw what we were doing and got on the phone with Aunt Lula real fast, 'cos she said they had a skip."

Ranger nodded. He knew all this of course. He leaned down and patted the little dog who waited patiently at his feet. "How ya doin', Killer? Anything good fall on the floor for you to eat, man?" The fawn pug gazed soulfully into Ranger's eyes then refocused intently on the cutting board that was piled with apple cores.

"Daddy! Killer loves apples, did you know that? We has a class trip today and we went to the apple orchard and we had a hayride and we got to pick apples and I got some to bring home and me and Ella are making _pie!"_

Killer loved anything edible. Ranger hoped pugs were supposed to eat apples because otherwise the results might not be pretty.

Ella said, "Lester went with the parent chaperones, Ranger."

Ranger nodded again and set Zoë down.

Ella wondered for a moment how her employer knew everything, always, but Zoë was looking up at Ranger and saying, "Daddy! Did you have hot dogs for lunch? Mommy always spills ketchup on her when we have hot dogs!"

Ranger glanced down at himself. He was dressed casually, intentionally low-profile, in faded jeans and one of his usual trademark expensive black t-shirts under a white button up shirt, black leather jacket unzipped on top. The jacket had fallen open and the white shirt was marred by a spreading red stain.

He said, "Oh it's nothing. A little accident." But Ella thought he looked pale around the nose and mouth and she grabbed a handful of paper towels, passing them to Ranger.

She said calmly, "Let's get you into the living room, I am calling Brown." Subtext: _Or do you need an ambulance?_'

Zoë little voice said, "Daddy?"

Ranger replied, "It's nothing, baby,'' even as Ella helped him out of the jacket and shirt. He slouched down on the sofa and stuffed the paper towels under the t-shirt to try to stop the bleeding from the knife slash across his rib cage.

"Do you have a boo-boo, daddy?"

"Just a little one, baby."

"Will you have a scar? Like the one on your arm? I know it makes mommy worry but Uncle Anthony says, you know, chicks really dig scars!" She was referring to the bullet crease Ranger had gotten all those years ago rescuing Mooner and Dougie. It had left a white line on his bicep and he knew Steph still blamed herself.

Ranger said to Zoë, "Anthony should know…." He closed his eyes for a minute. H knew he should send Zoë to her room, but thought that would be even scarier for her. She could stay and see that he was fine. Ranger felt Zoë climb up on the sofa next to him. Killer jumped up too and snuggled between them. Zoë took his hand and he faded a bit, waking up a minute later to Bobby Brown coming in with his medical bag.

"Let me see, Ranger. Zoë, honey, you need to move," ordered Bobby Brown, Ranger's good friend and the company medic.

Zoë said, "I am going to stay and hold daddy's hand so it won't hurt. That's what mommy does when I need a Sin Nation."

Both men said, "What?"

Zoë mimed getting an injection and Brown nodded, "A vaccination….well…, "

Ranger said, "Let her stay, it's just a scratch. They fixed it up on the job, but…."

Brown cut away the t-shirt, Ranger thinking, _hey, a hundred bucks, dude! _Bobby said, _"_You need stitches, Ranger, these butterfly Band-Aids are crap." In Spanish he said, "You should go to the emergency room."

Ranger said, "No," while Zoë said back in Spanish, "The emergency room is scary. Daddy doesn't want to go there."

Brown looked at her and Ranger and sighed. The kid talked so much in English! Did she really have to speak Spanish too?

He met Ranger's eyes and Ranger did his infinitesimal shrug, made even smaller by the pain of the injury, which was much more severe than either he or Brown were letting on.

"I'll do my best but if I can't stop the bleeding…"

"Get on with it. So, Zoë…talk to me, baby, I hate needles."

"Me too, daddy, except when Ella and I sew with Aunt Olivia. She is going to make a quilt with me, did you know that? It is going to be pink.…And you know what, daddy, Aunt Olivia has new puppies, Rosalita had babies and I think Killer would like a baby brother! Killer gets lonesome! Killer wants a puppy."

Ranger glanced down at Killer who was snoring slightly. "Did you discuss this with your mother, chica?"

"Yes and she said, _Maybe a hamster_, but then she got all cry-y, and I don't think we want a hamster."

_No_, thought Ranger, _Steph still mourned her tiny companion Rex._ He said, "I don't know, Zoë, Killer might be sad, he might not want to share."

"But, daddy!"

"Killer loves you a lot…I think one Killer is all you'll ever need, babe."

"Uncle Anthony says that too, daddy."

"I'm not surprised."

"All done," announced Bobby.

"Zoooo-o-o-ë, time to take the pies out!" called Ella.

"Yay. Do you want pie, Uncle Bobby? We made it all ourselves. An' we got ice cream too! For on top, yum!"

"Yes, please."

The child scampered away, followed by the chubby little pug dog.

Brown stared at Ranger until the silence made Ranger open his eyes and say, "What?"

Bobby quoted, "_One Killer is all you'll ever need, babe_?"

"It came out wrong."

"Yeah."

**the end/ series to be continued (a Columbus Day story wil be posted Sunday nite or Monday! enjoy...)**


	12. Chapter 12 Monster Mash

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**a/n Zoe is 5. Zoe's bodyguard, Arkady Petrovich, aka Monster appears in Jane's Dilemma and other Zoe fics. Since Zoe "found" him during the winter, his introductory story will appear later, even tho it takes place the winter before this story. OK? **

**.**

**.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 12 ~ Monster Mash<strong>

_[pov? you figure it out!]_

_._

**"Your daughter **is very beautiful."

I snapped yet another picture of Zoë , who was dashing madly around the field of huge orange pumpkins and the woman's words finally registered in my brain. _Daughter, what daughter?_

Zoë ran to me with a baby pumpkin cradled in her arms. She did her usual headlong rush and I scooped her up in my arms at the last moment, eliciting a gleeful scream. She said, "Look! Look! I found a baby one!"

_Thank you, God. _I so did not want to scoop the guts out of a 30 pound behemoth of a gourd and I could tell that this day was gonna end up with yours truly, aka _me!—_carving Zoë's treasure into a jack o'lantern. Sure, I could do that. But in recent years we'd used the orange fruits for target shooting, not fun and games. Well, not _kid-friendly_ fun and games, though the explosions when you hit them suckers with a large bore rifle shell—dude!—awesome.

"She looks exactly like you!" purred the voice in my ear.

We turned to the speaker. _Yet another mom on the prowl,_ I thought. Single, divorced or still married, it seemed like these women were all, well, looking. Looking for action, if you know what I'm sayin'.

This lady smiled at me and said, "I'm Lisa Petty, Joshie's mom. This must be Zoë , she is adorable! She has your eyes, doesn't she?"

_Noooo!_

Good thing Ranger isn't here today, cos I'd be a dead man. Nope, Ranger had the sense—or good luck—to have planned a special birthday treat for Stephanie—a day of shopping in Manhattan, followed by dinner and a romantic night at a five-star hotel. Unfortunately, this was also the day of Zoë's class trip to the pumpkin fields of Pennsylvania. Today was Oct 12, the REAL Columbus Day and Steph's birthday. The holiday would be Monday though, giving all the little kiddies time to recuperate from the excitement of their first kindergarten class trip and their exertions butchering their pumpkins.

I had been drafted to be the designated parental unit, and I'd do anything for Zoë. But the comments on my/her looks were getting scary.

Zoë said to the woman, "This is NOT my daddy!" Then to me, "Put me down, please, Joey is looking for me." I kissed her cheek and set her down. She ran off to find Joey Morelli, Steph's ex-boyfriend Joe's kid.

Mrs. Petty patted my arm. "Don't feel bad, I'm sure it's just a stage."

"Huh?"

"She probably isn't really rejecting you! I bet she loves her daddy to pieces!"

_Maybe but that's not who I am!_

Mrs. Petty was still babbling. "Maybe she has i_ssues_, I've heard that you travel a lot." She glanced past me and called, "Jenn! Megan! Come meet Zoë 's daddy!"

My name is Anthony Stewart and I am NOT Zoë 's daddy. I broadcast badass vibes and said nothing.

Mrs Petty squeezed my arm again and introduced her friends, ended up with, "And this is...?" Silence from me. "...Zoë's dad. And who's this with you?" She smiled and added, "What's your name?"

My companion said stoically, "Monster." He shook the ladies' hands.

"'_Monstaire_?' Is that Italian? Or French? What does it mean?" asked Jenn, Dangerous Housewife of New Jersey number two.

"I'm American, honey. Our names don't mean shit."

The women gasped and since the lines were delivered in Arkady Petrovich's fluent but heavily accented English, his words were obviously a lie or an insult. Movie quotes apparently aren't their thing.

Three offended mommies glared at us. I grabbed Monster's bicep and said, "Excuse us, ladies." I pulled Arkady aka Monster into the lee of one of the four prom bus limos that Ranger had "borrowed" from his pal Fast Eddie, no un-comfy yellow school busses for his little princess. The kids and especially the teachers and parents loved the limos—white, huge, and tacky, and volunteers for the outing had been numerous. The limos let Ranger install Rangeman operatives as the drivers, including the man who was lighting a forbidden cigarette and looking nervous.

Zoë's bodyguard said, "America is a very strrrrange place, my boy. In my homeland, we feed these cucurbits to the pigs, we do not have our children play with them."

Seeing as how I did go to college I knew cucurbits is a fancy word for pumpkins, used by Arkady in his strange outdated way with the English language.

I said, "Pumpkins. We call them pumpkins."

"Huh."

"It's an Irish custom."

"You do not look Irish to me, sonny." I opened my mouth but he went on, "That is not the point, the point is these women, they are like the sharks, wanting to gobble us up. They think we are dinner—or, or, sex machines. Your friend Eddie, Swift Eddie—they seemed to believe he is a movie star or something, this Antonio Bandana?"

"Uh..." Swift Eddie, Fast Eddie—whatever. I let the poor guy vent.

Arkady took a deep drag on his second unfiltered Camel, omigod, Ranger would kill him. Arkady caught my look and said, "I do not usually indulge, it is against the rules especially around the little one."

"It's not healthy, man."

"And our line of work is? You know, when I signed on, I never pictured myself a bodyguard to a little child. Yes, she is lovely and sweet and smart and no doubt precious to her father, but I am thinking it is my job because Ranger does not trust me to work in the real world, our world."

''Dude, our world is not the real world."

We're mercenaries, how surreal is that? Arkady is an ex-KGB assassin, an old...friend maybe?...an old enemy? of ours.

"But you understand my current?"

"What? No."

"Get my, ah, drift? Ranger does not trust me?"

"Ranger assigned you to Zoë because she likes you a lot."

"She likes everyone."

"Yeah but Ranger wouldn't trust her to just anyone. He couldn't give you a more important job, man—you are standing in his shoes, working on his behalf—personally—when you guard his child, or children. Believe me, he trusts you implicitly."

"And you? How is it you get the hard jobs, the exciting jobs?"

"The death wish jobs, you mean? I am here today, aren't I?"

"But? Surely I can do more than just be a childminder! You are important, a bad dude, as you say—how can I become this again? Arkady Petrovich was once a true monster, a man to be feared and respected!"

And he wants to go back to that life?

_Monster has a screw loose in his head_, I thought, but I said carefully, "Don't get too cocky, dude. No matter how good you are, don't ever let them see you coming. You gotta keep yourself small. Innocuous. Be the little guy. You know, the nerd... the leper... shit-kickin' surfer. Look at me..." I stopped and paused while Monster took in my ratty cargo shorts and surf shop t-shirt, cornrowed braids and autumn surfer tan. I said again, "Look at me... underestimated from day one. You'd never think I was a master of the universe, now would ya?"

Arkady did a mournful Russian-esque sigh. "And yet you are. At half my age, indeed."

I said, "Just goes to show. Hang in there, dude. Keep the faith and all that shit."

Arkady looked like he was considering another smoke or maybe pulling out his Glock and shooting me. But our moment was interrupted by Zoë's little voice, yelling,"Lookit! Lookit!"

We peered around the fender of the limo and saw Zoë with Binky, her other bodyguard, in tow. He cradled a humongous pumpkin in his arms and looked bemused and sweaty. Sucker had to weigh, like, forty pounds. The pumpkin, not the Binkster.

"This is my punkin," announced Zoe.

We grinned. "I thought he was your Binky," I teased.

"Not him! And I do _not_ need a binky. I am too old for a binky."

We smiled as James Binkman, called Binky, go figure, turned an unfortunate shade close to the pumpkin's red-orange. Clashed with his white blond hair, bigtime.

Zoë tapped her foot and folded her arms, staring at us, her troops.

Jeez, she did look exactly like Ranger and we all stifled gasps of laughter. Her eyes narrowed. "_You_ will guard my punkin." Pointed finger at Monster. "_You_ will ride on the hayride cart with me," pointing to me. "And _you _please go buy a gallon of cider and a bunch of apples for mommy, we promised, right?"

We all nodded. _Siryessir, Ranger._

Zoë grabbed my hand and towed me towards the hay wagon full of over-excited toddlers and their over-stimulated moms. Behind me I heard Monster say in Russian, "Do you have your gun, my boy? You may need it!" And Binky laughed. I surreptitiously gave them the finger and walked on.

We took our places on the hay bales and Zoë looked up at me. She quirked her finger so I'd lean down and she whispered in my ear, "Why did Monster think you need your gun, Uncle Anthony?"

"No reason, he was just being an assho—a jerk, chica." Then I realised what she'd said, that she'd undersood his Russian words, and she stared me down with her 5 year-old's Ranger eyes.

Silence, silence, profound silence—in a horde of screaming, crying, yelling kids, with crows cawing overhead and the horses whinnying and the cart creaking—silence. Finally I said, "So, what are you going to be for Halloween, baby?"

_An alien?_

"I am gonna be an InterGalactic Princess, IGP for short."

"Uh-huh. Like Wonder Woman?"

"No, like a real princess, I will wear black leather with spangles and velvet and black boots and have stars in my hair, I'll have a laser rifle and ninja stars. I'll be a badass, Uncle Anthony, a princess-girl badass."

"I'm sure you will, baby. You'll be the prettiest badass on the streets on Trick or Treat night." Even prettier than your dad, maybe.

"NOT prettiest. Baddest."

"Absolutely, chica."

What else would she be, she's his kid, right?

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><p><strong>the end of the story series tbc**


	13. Chapter 13 XRangemanXFile

**Shelter from the Storm**

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standard fanfic disclaimers apply.

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><p>an Thanks to Adalind for suggesting the X-Files and Harmne for the X-Files info, since I d never seen the show! I suppose this chapter is a crossover but the story as a whole is not so it's staying right here. enjoy.

.

Many thanks to everyone who leaves comments/ reviews/ PMs. So cool. thx!

love

sunny

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><p><strong>Chapter 13 - The XXXRangemanXXX File<strong>

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**Tank escorted the agents into my office** at Rangeman. I waved them to the visitors' chairs while Tank took a seat on the leather sofa behind me.

I glanced at the notes on my computer screen. "Agent Scully, Agent Mulder." _Smith, Jones..._

They nodded. I looked them over. They didn't really look like the usual FBI staff agents Rangeman works with. She was red-haired and petite, big blue eyes. Prim skirt suit and too high heels. He was about my height, mediocre suit, bad tie. A little on the pretty side.

_LOL,_ said Anthony, who was watching a live feed in the next room. _Pot, kettle._

_Shut the fuck up. I never wear a bad suit._

_LOL, bro._

I said, "What can I do for the FBI today?"

Mulder spoke earnestly, "It has come to our attention that the military—perhaps I should say covert government operations—is using agents who have psychic talents."

"Excuse me?"

"This cannot come as a surprise, Mr. Manoso," said Scully. "The government has been involved in extrasensory studies for years."

"And."

''Mr. Manoso, your name is often mentioned in a rather...secretive or hushed manner in relation to strong ESP ability. We'd like to discuss that with you.''

?

Mulder glanced at Tank as if unsure about our privacy. Tank glared in a Buddha-like way. Mulder finally went on, ''You _were_ covert ops, were you not?''

''I can neither confirm nor deny that information, Agent Mulder."

Mulder ignored me. "We believe..."

"_He_ believes!" broke in the woman. Scully.

"...that humans have no extrasensory abilities, that these "gifts" are instead an alien attribute. Thus—"

"You're fucking kidding me," I said.

"You would perhaps be unaware, a grandparent might..."

I'd heard enough. "Look, you're here under false pretenses. Mitch will show you out.'' I pressed the comm unit on my desk.

"Wait!" shouted Mulder.

"At least hear us out, Mr. Manoso. I am a fully qualified medical doctor. I studied at Johns Hopkins," said Scully.

_LOL._ From Anthony.

"It is very simple to run tests. I also have a PhD in DNA research from Yale."

_Big fucking deal._

"And you studied alien DNA? Do they even have DNA?" I asked. "Aliens, I mean."

"So you admit aliens exist?" Mulder was getting excited.

I said, "I'm a busy man, don't waste my time. Mitch will show you out."

Scully asked me, "Why did you agree to see us then? Surely you're curious?"

''Lady, I run a paramilitary offshore army and on the domestic front Rangeman enters into contracts with various government agencies including the FBI. When I slotted you into today's appointment diary I was misled about the purpose of this meeting. Please leave."

Mitch appeared in the doorway."Sir?"

Neither agent rose from his/her seat. Mulder said quickly, "I can tell what you're thinking!"

"Then you have more ESP than I do, Agent Mulder.''

He said, "You think we're nut jobs."

"Is that a technical term, sir?" asked Mitch. I waved him out and shrugged.

Mulder told me, "I am a trained psychologist and parapsychologist. I was a Rhodes Scholar! I went to Oxford."

?

_Are you one of those guys who has to constantly 'one-up' everyone else? Your Oxford trumps my Harvard and Stanford, your partner's Hopkins and Yale? WTF? Does Anthony win all, since he has more degrees from even better places?_

_And all this money, I'm rich, I'm rich! ROTFLMAO! I win! _crowed Anthony.

_Please shut up..._

My silence was getting to Mulder. He got a little agitated. I meant to hide my smile, but I guess it leaked through.

"I am not a crackpot!" the agent yelled.

Scully placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Fox, sweetheart, you're getting too emotional."

He jerked away. "Hell, no! I knew a guy once who was a lot worse at that than me."

Scully and I said, ''What?''

''Look, Colonel...listen, what should we call you? Mr. Manoso, Colonel? Ranger?"

"You don't need to call me anything because unless you're here to contract a rendition or a job, you're leaving now.''

"Please at least listen. There _are_ aliens in our world, Colonel. All kinds of them, probably both good and bad. I believe the better ones marry and mingle with humans...but the bad ones, they kill instead. My sister was killed by [whispers] _bad aliens_. This month, on Halloween, it will be the 5th anniversary of her death.''

''Maybe it was zombies,'' I suggested sarcastically.

''She was killed by _aliens!_ And so if indeed you have alien blood, we can only hope it is the good kind, beneficent kind...Scully can run tests, DNA and so on. Please reconsider!"

I pushed back from my desk, ready to show these, well, crackpots, to the door. My office door, left ajar by super vigilant Mitch who hovered just outside, was suddenly shoved open and my daughter Zoë stormed in.

"Daddy daddy daddy! The Yankees LOST!" Zoë is a four year old whirlwind. She was dressed in a black ruffled miniskirt over pink, red, and black striped leggings. On top she wore a tiny Derek Jeter NY Yankees jersey and her Yankees hat.

Yes, her outfit clashed. Not my problem.

She hurled the baseball cap to the floor and stood hands on hips, glaring at me. The New York Yankees just lost the first round playoffs and were out of this year's World Series. Zoë stomped her foot.

_What? I wasn't pitching, it's not my fault._

I said, "I know, baby.''

''It just happened!''

We eyed each other.

Zoë went on, "We were watching in the break room with the guys! Hal said they should send Sabathia down to Columbus, so he'd learn to pitch!"

?

"And then Monster yelled at the TV, too. He told Alex Rodriguez he was a _piker._ A-Rod struck out and Monster yelled: _You almost knocked over your alcohol with your knife." _Imitating her favorite bodyguard's Russian accent,_ "_ ...What does that mean, daddy?''

_Maybe it got lost in the translation, _I suggest_._

Zoë thinks, _No._

Now Agent Scully, the woman, interrupted. She picked up Zoë's Yankee hat, offered it to Zoë. Said, "Hello. You must be Zoë.''

Zoë looked at her. My daughter has been taught to be polite to adults but like me she was getting a strange vibe here.

_Who are these people? _she asks.

But she took the hat, said thank you. I didn't introduce her and at that moment Britta, Zoë's nanny came in. She smiled at me, mouthed "Sorry," and told Zoë, "Zoë, it is time for your snack then you have ballet."

"Okay." Zoë gave me a hug, gave the agents a sharp look, and went happily off with Britta, presumably to ballet.

In the two seconds of confusion and hugs, I took my eyes off the FBI people. Now I refocused, just in time to see Mulder reach out and pinch up a long curly black hair off the pale grey office carpet. He straightened up, other hand thumbing open a clean white envelope.

My Glock appeared instantly in my hand, no thought needed. I racked the slide and both agents jumped a few inches, turned pale.

I said, ''You investigate or research either of my daughters you're dead. Both of you. Hand me the envelope.''

''Please...it's so important!''

Mitch was outside, so I told Tank, "Get them out of here."

One good look at Tank's thunderous expression and the agents hustled out. Mitch took over, led them away. Tank came back in, handed me the envelope with Zoe's DNA evidence. "Ranger..."

I held up a finger. "Wait." I clicked my mouse and the elevator interior came up on my monitor.

... ... ...

**Mulder and Scully in the **elevator:

Mulder: "What were your feelings?''

Scully: ''I do have my suspicions.''

Mulder: "He's one of _them_."

"No," says Scully. "He's just too..." She heaves a big sigh, fans her face with both hands. "Geez. He's so hot!"

Mulder says, "But the military, black ops!"

Scully,"Soooo hot, amaaaazingly h..."

Mulder: "ESP! Covert training! Scully, he...he _is_...an alie..."

"Mulder, he is just so beautiful, so—omigod, that body, the hair, the eyes, so, so..." sigh.

"He _is_ an alien, Scully!"

... ... ...

**In Ranger's office, Tank and Anthony** look over Ranger shoulder at the monitor. They watch the agents on the screen as they discuss the possible alien-ness of his, Ranger's, DNA.

Ranger shakes his head. "Why do they think aliens have DNA?"

Tank hums the _Twilight Zone_ music.

Anthony: "Wrong music." He hums the _X-Files_ theme.

Then, ''Should we, ah, neutralize the inquiry, boss?" asks Tank.

'Naw. The guy's a crackpot."

''Whacko,'' agrees Tank.

''Loco,'' says Anthony.

''No one will believe him anyway. Let it go,'' says Ranger. He laughs. "Alien DNA. Fuck me."

_**the end of the story/ series tbc**_

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><p><em><strong>thanks for reviewing!<strong>_


	14. Chapter 14 Happy Halloween

**Shelter from The Storm**

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**.**

**Chapter Fourteen ~ Happy Halloween #1 : _Somewhere the Rainbow_**

**. **

**Ranger, Anthony and Tank** are at an unspecified meeting in DC. The bigwigs are bitching that Ranger and his crew did not respond to their summons in a timely manner and that Ranger has insisted the briefing be postponed til the following day.

Ranger stares at the alphabet agency suit-type. Finally he says: "You people should consider yourselves lucky that I'm granting you an audience tomorrow instead of twenty years from now.'"

The suits stare open mouthed, "Huh?"

Finally one says, "Twenty years? Even _you _may be too old by then, Colonel Manoso."

Ranger thinks, _Little_ _do you know I will still be 30.  
><em>  
>Meanwhile Anthony and Tank have figured out the quote. Anthony shakes his head sadly while Tank elbows Ranger in the ribs and says, "Reading <em>The<em> _Wizard of Oz _to Zoë, boss?"

Ranger sighs. "No. Stephanie got the newest enhanced 70th birthday edition DVD for HER birthday. We've watched it maybe 200 times..."

Anthony: "Bummer."

Ranger: "It's ok, I was tired of _Ghostbusters**.**_"

"I can imagine."

"Yeah, only problem is, Zoë wants to get Killer [her pug] a Toto. And a blue dress for herself... and a trip to Kansas..."

Tank and Anthony laugh.

''And she watches _Storm Chasers_ all the time...just in case she can hitch a ride someday."

Ranger thumbs on his iPhone and shows the guys a video clip of Zoë wearing a pair of Steph's red FMPs and singing, _"SomeWHERE! OooooVER the RAINbow, laugh out LOUD..." _

Everyone in the room winces.

_"Blue bells Riiiing! You flew OH VER the rainBow, whyyy-oh-why-oh-whyyyy, can't IIII?"_

"Child can't sing, boss."

"I noticed."

The suits look on in disgust and dismay and wonder why they pay these a-h#*s to save the free world...

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><p><strong>the<strong> **end of the story, another Halloween story on Sunday-ish! series tbc.**

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><p><strong>Thank you<strong> so much for reading and especially for reviewing! I just LOVE reviews.

And please come read my co-written story 'One'...it's getting to 'the good' part, lots of fun Harmne smut and Adalind action. :-)


	15. Chapter 15 Happy Halloween Two

Thanks for all the great reviews!

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><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

—

**Chapter Fifteen ~ Wonder Woman** **[Happy Halloween Two]**

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**''Daddydaddydaddy! You have to **take me and Killy to my party! ''

I looked up from the copy of _Guns & Ammo_ I'd found on the coffee table under the _NY Times._

My five year old daughter Zoe was all dressed up as a very cute little witch. Other than the nauseous green face and the pointy hat, she actually looked more or less normal in a ruffled black velvet skirt and black t-shirt, and orange, purple, and green striped leggings.

Oh and on her feet...oversized, pointy, red sequined slippers, leftover from last year's Judy Garland outfit.

"Are you the Wicked Witch of the West?" I asked.

''Yes! But we gotta go, daddy. Please, can you take me? It's at school! We gotta go _right now_!"

No, it was Killer the pug who made me stare. The mournful little man was dressed up as...I'm not sure? Yoda? Little grey bonnet, anyway, with long pointy ears. Grey fur makeup. Black sequined harness and leash. Plastic gizmo shaped like a skull, eyes flashing, teeth chattering, worn as a dog tag at his throat. Killer's eyes bulged ominously.

I was too smart to ask. Instead I said, "Baby, it's Sunday. No school."

"Yes but we have a party! Remember? I told you ALL about it! A Punkin Patch Party! Ella made punkin cupcakes! And peanut butter muffins! We gotta go! And bring the treats."

''Uh...''

''We made them green and they have orange frosting with little sprinkle bugs and gummy worms and gummy cockroaches and and and..."

I glanced at my watch. _No way in hell..._

"I have an appointment, sweetie."

Fists on hips. ''What kind? You _said_ it is Sunday! And you're just sitting around.''

''Um, I need a haircut. The barber was gonna fit me in...where's your mother? Or Britta?'' Britta is our Swedish nanny.

''Britta has Sunday afternoons off, daddy!'' Long suffering voice, like _You know that_. "...and mommy had to run over to help Grandma M.''

''Hmmm...why?'' I got up and started looking for my shoes and guns. You knew I'd cave, right? My cell phone buzzed even as I shoved it into my pocket. ''Babe.''

''Hi, Ranger. I had to run out. I'll help Grandma here, really fast, I hope—and we'll meet you at the party, at Zoe's school.''

"What's wrong with Edna?"

''Oh nothing...it's just that, well, the class mother asked the parents to wear costumes too—Grandma was going to come to the party with me and Zoë, you remember how she loves Halloween?''

I put a jacket over my guns, waved Zoë towards the door of the apartment. ''Uh huh.''

_"Don't forget the cupcakes!"_ hissed Zoë.

''...So this year she borrowed my Wonder Woman outfit. And she decided to give it a trial run..."

?

We got on the elevator.

"So she wore it to church this morning! And when she went up for communion, the whole top fell off, she's a little...skimpy up there, ya know?"

"Babe." Zoë's bodyguard Arkady Petrovich got on the elevator on five. He stared at me, then smiled down at Yoda and The Wicked Witch of the West.

"And so some idiot off-duty cop tried to arrest her for indecent exposure! He grabbed her and when he cuffed her the little skirt fell off too. Right in the church, with everyone there for mass. All she had on was a tiny glow-in-the-dark lime green thong and the boots, Ranger!"

My stomach lurched.

"Babe, she's not the same shape as you, what was she thinking?"

''She was thinking she was Wonder Woman, Ranger. Duh.''

I buckled Zoë into her booster seat in the family Cayenne. Killer got buckled into his little doggy seat. I handed Monster the big flat box of cupcakes. He rode shotgun.

"Did Vinnie bail her out?'' I asked.

''No, no, Father Salvatore intervened, got her covered with someone's raincoat and I brought her home. Now we're trying to hot glue gun the outfit to her tracksuit, so it doesn't scare the children!''

As if that would help? Edna Mazur scares my battle-hardened men. And me.

''Okay, babe, I'm driving Zoë and Killer right now.''

"Oh thank god!"

''But, babe, I don't have a costume.''

I could hear the sexy smile in my wife's voice. "Superheroes don't need a costume, Batman. You're perfect just the way you are.''

She hung up.

'We drove a couple minutes in silence while I thought about being Steph's, uh, Superman. Then at a red light, a little voice came from the backseat.

"Daddy?''

''Yeah?"

''Joey Morelli says there's gonna be a toilet that oooooozes slime, green Kool-Aid slime! With smoke-ice! And we're gonna get to drink it!''

''A toilet?''

''Yeah. He says his daddy got the idea from some old movie.''

''Uh huh.''

''Daddy? ''

''Yeah.''

''Is toilet slime—yummy?''

''Chica...''

''Yeah,'' she sighed, ''that's what I thought.''

.

_**the end of the story/ series tbc**_

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><p>Here's the link for Killer's Yoda hat, be sure to look, it will make you smile!<p>

www[dot]etsy[dot]com/shop/jessicalynneart?ref=seller_info

I ll put in my profile too, in case ff won't let it show here.

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><p>Thank you for reviewing!<p> 


	16. Chapter 16 Manga Does Not Always Mean

**Shelter from the Storm ~ Chapter Sixteen**

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><p>an: Since I had to look this up to be sure I was okay with my definitions I am adding this brief info: **manga** refers to Japanese or Japanese-influenced comic books and/or their art. **anime **refers to Japanese cartoon animation; or Japanese-inspired animated cartoons. And yes I realize the Italian-American phrase is **_mangia_**, spelled and pronounced differently. Just was being silly...enjoy!

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Zoe is six, Julie is fourteen, Ranger and Stephanie are still 30.

... ... ... ...

**Manga Does Not Always Mean _Eat, eat! _**

**_. _**

**Part One**

**.**

**_Ranger_**

**I was tired, I needed a beer.** It was an unseasonably warm late afternoon in early November, the weather as nice as it ever gets in Jersey, I guess. When I got home, no one noticed my entrance so I silently slipped into the kitchen and found myself a cold Dos Equis. Leaned against the counter, took that first long gulp. _Aaah._

Ella was nowhere to be seen, but something was simmering, smelled nice. Zoë was not here; she had informed me this morning that she had a date with her new boyfriend...

_"Date? Boyfriend?''_

_''Yes! His name is Ethan!''_

_''You're only six, baby.'' _

_''And?'' _

Intervention from Stephanie: "_She means a playdate, Ranger."_

_(Oh. whew_)...so the apartment was calm and quiet. And now I could hear Stephanie and Julie, who were apparently in the living room. Julie, now 14, is spending a semester with us while she takes an advanced mathematics course at Princeton. I was enjoying having my girl with me full time, but despite renovations and extensions to my Haywood Street apartment, with the addition of Julie and Zoë and Britta, Zoë's nanny, our living quarters felt a little cramped these days.

Loud screaming mind-bending sex was definitely Out. Of. The. Question. _Too bad._

Julie was saying, "The convention is this weekend! At the Javitz Center in Manhattan, Steph! I absolutely _must_ go. Pleeeeze?"

Stephanie said, "Oh! Um. It's not up to me, Julie. You have to ask your dad. And I can't imagine..."

"He'll say no, you know he will!"

I moved slightly to my right so I could see the girls through the arch of the dining room. They were sitting on the big black leather sofas facing each other. Now Steph spread her hands, like: _Exactly, so why ask me?_ But Julie was on a roll. "Look. Just look!" She picked up a magazine from the coffee table and brandished it at Steph, then went to sit by her side. The dark heads, close together—so pretty. One sleek and smooth, the other as crazily curly as ever. Having a family was—nice.

I guess.

... ... ...

**_Steph_**

_**A manga comic book** convention?_ I thought.

I was pleased to have Julie confide in me, but really! Typical teenager playing one parent against the other. I was keeping the ball firmly in Ranger's court, though. This was definitely his job. So far Ranger has survived Julie's RPG [role-playing games] events and rock concerts, so who knows?

Julie said, "Looook," and opened the manga mag. "This is my very favorite! It's called _Blood Lust: The Revenge Of Princess Li Poo._ And she will be there!"

"Uh... She's a cartoon character, Julie."

"Well you know, someone will play her. And the artist will be there to sign my books!"

"Okay..."

"And look! This is Ninja-Shogun Tommy! He is the hero, he helps Li Poo on her vengeance quest. Is he not awesome?"

I examined the very slender adolescent boy in the drawing. He had defined muscles, a smooth chest, dark eyes and very long black hair. I wondered if Julie remembered Ranger from when she was little, because...well. And if she does—or does not!—what that means.

Not that Ranger was _ever_ sixteen! _Was he?_

Manga is not my cup of tea...but still. Hot boy, if I was twelve or so. Or even 25...and not married to Ranger, obviously.

"If _you_ ask daddy. he'll listen, Steph!"

"No. You have to ask him yourself, Jules."

"Ask me what?"

I jumped a little as Ranger silently appeared behind us. Julie looked over at him and smiled, maybe she knew he was here all along?

"Do you know what manga comics are, daddy? Anime?"

"Yeah."

"You do!" chorused both Julie and I.

Ranger sat across from us, set his beer on the coffee table and stretched his long legs out. He looked—_something_. Besides hot. Maybe tired? But he gave Julie his full attention and said, "Go on."

Julie explained about the anime and manga convention and why it was absolutely imperative that she attend.

"Okay," said Ranger.

We gaped at him. "But you have to take Uncle Lester and Vince with you."

"Nooooo! Not Lester! He'll sweet-talk all the girls, he'll make a scene. Please, Daddy. And, Vince is so, um, serious."

"You pick whoever you want, then, chica...or take Anthony, he likes that manga shit. Just let me know."

"No! Not Anthony! He probably owns the Convention Center! Or, or, Japan, who knows!"

"He still has time for fun, Julie," I said loyally. "All that money hasn't changed him, really."

"No, but, he's... Anyways. So okay...maybe Vince would be good, at least he's young...and maybe, uh—Binky?"

"Binky?"

"Well, yeah. He's young and kinda cute..."

_"Binky?"_

"Yeah. And Vince. If he promises not to be boring."

"I'm sure he'll try if so ordered, baby. And Stephanie and I will go along." He held up a hand to stop her protest. "We'll drop you off, hang out in the city, pick you up at a designated time and place."

"But daddy."

"My way or the highway, Julie."

Big huge teenage sigh. "You're not gonna embarrass me, are you?"

"I hope not."

"Or shoot anyone?"

"Julie! Of course he won't shoot anyone, " I interjected to fill the silence. No way would he promise not to shoot anyone. Because, well, you never know...

Julie considered everything for a second (she is sooo her daddy's clone!) then she jumped up and hugged him, then me, squealing and giddy. "Yay! Oh, yeah, yay! You're the best, daddy. I love you!" She snatched up her manga mags and ran out of the room. Her door slammed then in a moment her head popped back out, "Can I invite Mary Alice?" Valerie's younger child, the little girl formerly known as a horse was now Julie's age and they had become close friends.

Ranger nodded. "If her mom says it's okay."

"I'll call Val later, and confirm it, Julie," I added.

The guestroom door slammed again.

Ranger shut his eyes, tipped his head back against the sofa cushions. I went to him and hugged him. We kissed.

I said, "You handled that pretty well."

"Running an army is easier than this, babe."

"Yeah. So why are we really going to the manga convention?"

"Sometimes I think you know me too well."

I kissed him again and said, "No way! You'll always be my man of mystery."

* * *

><p><strong>Manga Does Not Always...Part 2<strong>

**.**

**On the day of the Manga & Anime Convention** Ranger produced an elegant black Mercedes Maybach limo from somewhere and we all piled in and headed to the City. An unfamiliar Rangeman guy drove, with Vince riding shotgun. I sat with Ranger, Julie and Binky in the back and listened to Julie's excited chatter. Lucky for us, Binky was getting into the whole manga thing and he managed to keep Julie occupied. He and Vince were in casual clothes, which for a Rangeman employee meant expensively deteriorated jeans, a black t-shirt [non-logo] and a jacket or shirt to hide the guns.

Ranger was dressed similarly and when Julie saw the three of them she rolled her eyes discreetly behind Ranger's back. But she said nothing. Julie herself was dressed Goth-lite, black clothes, "no" makeup which seemed fine with Ranger who was a pretty indulgent dad, his only issue with Julie being that she didn't make herself look too adult. Ranger had chosen my clothes from my closet. I wasn't annoyed with that because we were working a job.

That's right, a job. You know Ranger. I mean, I love the man, but he is ALL about the job, right?

We emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, made a right on 11th Avenue. The big Maybach pulled up at the black glass entrance of the convention center and Vince hopped out, got the door for Julie. Julie leaned over and gave me a hug, Ranger a little cheek kiss. Ranger said, "Have fun, baby," and Julie bounced out of the car with a wave.

Binky followed without a word. The men had been extensively briefed before we left Trenton. Not to mention that the guys would rather die than let anything happen to Ranger's daughter. No one was forgetting the Scrog thing, though we rarely mentioned it anymore.

The driver pulled back into traffic, went around a few corners and headed uptown. Twenty potholed, nerve-racking minutes later we again pulled to the curb, this time at the Four Seasons Hotel on East 57th Street.

Ranger grabbed a black leather duffel, said to our driver, "Wait here."

The doorman opened the limo door while the Rangeman driver said, "Yessir." Ranger bypassed reception and steered me into the elevator, pressing a floor number as if he owned the place.

"Don't we have to check in?''

He showed me a Four Seasons key card which was actually a real golden key, attached to the plastic fob with a red silk cord. With a tassel. I said, "How did you do that?"

Tiny shrug.

"Hmmm? How?"

"I had one of the men check us in yesterday and bring me the keys, babe. I hate to wait in line while some tourist asks the concierge how to get to Radio City or somethi..." He stopped speaking when the doors reopened and a pair of dark-skinned, bearded men in Arab robes got on the elevator with us.

Ranger and I politely stared forward but I could feel the eyes of the other men examining me in my slim black trousers, FMPs and scoop neck sweater. One made some comment to his companion and they snickered. The other man responded in what I was guessing was Arabic. I narrowed my eyes, I could tell a rude tone even if I couldn't speak their language. Unfortunately for the two men, Ranger could speak their language and he said something back to them in a sharp tone. The two sheiks went goggle-eyed.

Uh oh. "What did you say?" I hissed, grabbing his arm.

"I said that my camel sucks his mother's dick, babe."

"What? But..."

"You speak our language poorly, American," said the one man.

"No, I speak your language as well as you do. What?—you didn't know about your mother and her di..."

The man leaped at Ranger but the elevator door had opened and we sidestepped the furious Arabs and a laughing Ranger pulled me out onto the landing. The door shut on two outraged faces.

"Our room is right down the hall here, babe."

"What was that? You never make a scene."

"Dunno, babe. The Four Seasons is maybe going downhill? All these, ah, foreigners. How do you feel about the Mandarin Oriental?"

"Huh?

He keyed our room open and threw the duffle on the bed.

I sat down next to it and tried to frown at him. But he was still smiling and I couldn't resist. I smiled back , then ran my tongue over suddenly dry lips.

"Sorry, babe. No time. Jeffery is double-parked. And we have to get you into costume."

"Oh, okay." See! All about the damn job! And I thought my current bimbo outfit _was_ the costume!

"Here's the file, you can review it while I unpack."

Twenty minutes later I was sporting elaborate makeup, a fake brow ring, dozens of silver rings—in my ears _and_ on my fingers. Hair slicked back, tight silver tank top and cropped black cargoes. Mile high boots and a long black leather coat. Ranger settled the leather coat on my shoulders and checked me out.

"You look hot, Steph." He stood behind me as I examined myself in the three-way full length mirror. His lips brushed the soft skin below my ear and I shivered. "I look like Trinity, in The Matrix," I mumbled. "Or a gay Neo..."

"The skip has a thing for Matrix."

"But he's a manga publisher..."

Ranger did one of his annoying pauses then he said, "_The Matrix_ was a cyberpunk film gone Hollywood. The imagery in the films was strongly influenced by classic Japanese anime, which is the sort of animated version of manga. The _Matrix_ trilogy is anime made "real"—live action—and mainstream."

I stared at him. He grinned, "According to Antonio, anyway...I cut out the _likes_ and _you knows_."

We were on the trail of one of Ranger's high bond skips. I was, as usual, the decoy. The man published manga magazines here in the US, but it seemed he had been using his legitimate business to launder cash from less savory sources, the usual mob stuff: drugs, extortion, illegal gambling. He'd been arraigned in a federal court because of the crossing state lines thing, but a lenient judge let him out on a quarter million dollar bond. The man paid the bond in full then skipped off home to NYC, never to appear again in New Jersey Federal court.

The skip was Morty Saltzman, a well-known name in the world of manga publications, apparently. He was even receiving an award today for excellence in media artistry, go figure.

Now Ranger said, "Saltzman likes all types of fantasy. And you fill the requirements nicely, babe." His hands explored a little and he kissed me again, on the collarbone this time. I shivered despite the leather coat.

"Won't I look like an idiot? I look like I'm in costume."

"No, you'll fit right in. You'll see—it'll be like that Hobbit gathering. Or Dougie and Mooner's Star Wars thing, remember that?"

I giggled. "Star Trek. Oh yeah. I had cheese balls in my hair for a week."

We made _eeew _faces, then laughed. I said, "How could you stand me? Wasn't I just so stupid, so—revolting?"

"Babe, you were adorable."

... ... ...

**"Now remember, the important part is**, _don't embarrass Julie_," I said when we entered the convention center an hour later. "And don't shoot anyone." The three more Rangeman operatives we'd acquired on the drive downtown stared at me in disbelief.

Ranger ignored me and with his hand on the small of my back, aimed me at a dais where someone was making a speech, giving out awards. I tuned out and looked around. Omigod, we'd been lucky that Julie had not gotten dressed in full Li Poo regalia. I counted at least half a dozen girls in her very revealing, skintight black catsuit and kabuki-inspired, neo-Goth make-up.

I saw some young men dressed as Shogun Tommy wannabees too, though they all lacked the musculature of the manga hero. Many other characters too were there and if I was a fan, I'd have known who they all were.

No other Trinities though. I had lost Ranger; he probably faded away on purpose while I inched my way up to the skip who was waiting to go onstage.

I noticed a stir off to my right. Two Li Poos facing off. I could hear, "Who do you think you are anyway?"

_shove._

"I am Her Tragic Royal Highness, Princess Li Poo, who the fuck are you?"

_shove back._

Ooops. Both girls sounded like they'd been hitting the concession stands, which included a cash bar selling mixed alcoholic drinks and beer.

Someone else said, "I heard the real Li Poo was gonna be here today."

"I am the real Li Poo, dickwad." A new voice.

"Bullshit, baby. You're from Astoria. I know a Queens accent when I hear one."

"Huh! Brooklyn!"

more shoves.

"You wouldn't know the real Li Poo if you were fucking her," yelled a young man's voice.

"I'm the real..." cried Poo number three.

"You're not!"

The crowd was gathering round.

I heard, "The Queen of Somewhere attacked the real Li Poo!"

_Screams, shoves. _

The two original pairs of Li Poos were oblivious, screaming at each other. Someone reached in and tried to pull one of the Li Poos' hair. Her black wig came away in the attacker's hand. The boy screamed and threw the wig.

I heard, "Omigod! They cut off her head! Did you see that?"

A shout went up. "Li Poo is dead! She lost her head!"

Mass hysteria. "Nooooo!"

"Avenge Li Poo! Avenge Li Poo!"

_Idiots._

I fought against the tide of onlookers, heading to my skip. He stood calmly watching the brawl unfold, a slight smile of derision on his pudgy but relatively adult face.

I sidled up next to him, said, "This is crazy. Not at all what I was hoping for..."

He shrugged but then he caught a glimpse of me in my _Matrix_ outfit. He turned and looked me up and down. "Trinity, I presume?" he said, all fake-James Bond suave.

I smiled at him. "Li Poo is just so...cartoonish, ya know?"

"Oh I agree, though of course the money is there, she is a real heroine to many teenage girls."

I waved a languid hand at the ongoing screaming rolling brawl.

"Like that?"

"Well...," he looked down my tank's v-neck at my Wonderbra cleavage. He dragged his eyes back up to my face, lingered on the brow ring, and I smiled at him. He blinked, said, "May I buy you a drink? It might be quieter in the lobby. The bar is _rah_-ther pedestrian but they get the job done."

I could hear sirens so I was definitely thinking I should wrap this up. "Absolutely. Watching wrestling matches always gives me a...thirst." I licked my lips, stuck out a hand, said, "I'm Trinity. Hi."

He shook my hand. "Morty. Morty Saltzman." Yep, this is the guy.

"A pleasure, um, Morty. So—that drink?"

He grabbed my elbow and we headed away from the mob.

Almost out the door I heard, "Steph? Hey! Steph!" and looked over the sea of battling Poo heads to get a glimpse of Julie. I waved but didn't respond, saw Vince appear by her side to distract her. I hoped he and Binky would get Julie to safety before things got too crazy—or the Li Poo contingent might not be the only ones heading for a hospital visit today.

Morty and I cleared the convention room doorway. The lobby was a momentary oasis of quiet.

Then Rangeman tromped in_, "Freeze freeze, you're under arrest for bond evasion. We have a warrant! Freeze!"_ And Ranger, Tank, and the boys flung poor Morty Saltzman to the marble floor. Oh that _had_ to hurt.

Saltzman squawked but did not resist. And by the time the NYPD rolled in, he was long gone, shackled neatly into a Rangeman Expedition parked out at the curb.

"Good job, babe."

"Yeah, but where's Julie?"

"Here she is now," said Tank who had somehow become part of the takedown. I thought we left him in Jersey. But, no.

Julie stomped over to us, ignoring all the NYC cops and escaping rioters. She stood hands on hips in front of her father, tapped a black booted toe.

?

"You promised not to embarrass me, daddy!

?

"Look at this! It's a brawl, a riot!"

?

"It's not—fun!" Her voice quivered.

"And."

"And I just know you had something to do with it!"

"No, chica. Really—it wasn't my fault."

"Humphf!" said Julie and she stalked off to the limo, trailed by her faithful Rangeman boys.

Ranger watched her go, his face showing just a tinge of parental angst.

I said, "Now you know how it feels."

* * *

><p><em>the end of the story series tbc._


	17. Chapter 17 Enjoy Your Turkey

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**a/n:This story may not make much sense unless you've read my other stories, but maybe you'll enjoy it anyway? **

**Arkady Petrovich, aka Monster - **old friend of Ranger's, now Zoe's bodyguard.

**Dave: **"Dracula guy" young Romanian hitman, old friend of Ranger's, now a Rangeman employee. [_Jane's Dilemma_]

You can read the details of Mercenary Ranger's family in Take a Chance...

**Zoe** is 5.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen ~ Happy Thanksgiving. Enjoy Your Turkey.<strong>

**.**

**.**

_Stephanie_

_._

**''That man gives me the shivers, Stephanie." ****My mom watched **her granddaughter from the kitchen window.

The man referred to was Zoë's ex-hitman bodyguard, Arkady Petrovich. This November afternoon we had stopped by my parents' house to say hello after taking Zoë to a playdate. Zoë and I have tried hard to be normal but the playdate was deadly dull. When we arrived at the orange and brown Plum house in the Burg Zoë gave everyone a big hug and ran outside to use up some of her pent up energy. She isn't a kid who enjoys sitting still playing Barbies all afternoon. She was of course accompanied out the backdoor by her little dog Killer and the aforementioned bodyguard.

It's not real easy making new friends when the bodyguards are around scaring the crap out of everyone, but we tgave it our best shot. So to speak.

I sat down at the kitchen table with my grandma. I told my mom, ''He's a good guy." Okay, I lied to my mom. "And he loves Zoë." More importantly Petrovich, aka Monster, both loved and feared Ranger.

Grandma piped up, "He's pretty hot for an old guy. Wonder if he has a date for New Years Eve?'

Monster isn't young but I'm gonna guess he's maybe twenty-five years younger than grandma.

My mom poured us coffee, set out a cake. She said, "Well, he frightens me."

"Don't be a wussy, Helen." said grandma. "Probably he's harmless, right, Stephanie?"

"Um..."

"Although I myself am partial to that new young one, the Count Dracula guy with the loooong black hair. Just like Ranger used to have. Now _he's_ a real hottie."

Yes he is but "Dave" categorically refused to go on playdates, told Ranger _Just shoot me now, boss, please—_so Monster it is.

I shrugged, changed the subject, ''What are you guys doing?''

The table was covered with color printed newspaper supplements, clipped coupons, scissors. A notepad, a pen, and a list.

Mom said, "We're starting to plan our Thanksgiving shopping."

"Double coupons!" added Grandma.

"Looks like a lot of work, mom."

''Yes, Stephanie, it's a lot of work! And frankly I'm getting tired of it. I've been doing all the holidays every year since before Valerie was born."

"Heck, I helped!" protested grandma.

''Yes, mother, you did. But it's a lot of work. And a lot of years..."

Grandma agreed. "Almost sixty for me, Helen, that's a lot of turkey."

"I thought you enjoyed it?" I said.

''Well, I'm tired, Stephanie. It's just one more big chore, with so much baggage. Heaven forbid I forget the yams or the fried onions for the green beans! This one wants cranberry sauce, that one wants cole slaw. It's a nightmare."

Grandma nodded. ''It's a high pressure holiday for a housewife. You gotta be on top of it, bring your A game! All your ducks and turkeys organized, lined up in a row. Gotta be perfect."

_Hmmm.._."Valerie?" I suggested weakly.

"Oh please. In her tiny space? And all those kids? We'd be lucky to get a pizza delivered."

I started to say, "I didn't know you felt this way..." but I was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of the backyard contingent. The door banged open and Zoë stormed in on the heels of her doggy.

''Grandma! Killer is thirsty! Killer wants...a cherry Coke? He is _tired_ of Kool-Aid."

"Say please, Zoë," I mumbled.

"Please. Um, please, Gramma Helen?"

Mom looked puzzled, ''Cherry coke? Kool-Aid? I never..."

Grandma's face was determinedly blank and innocent.

The door opened again and Monster stepped in. "Ladies." He sniffed the warm air. "What is that smell?"

Zoë grabbed his hand and told him, "I think she's making brownies.''

''Oh, the brownies?" He looked at the bottom of his shoes. "Is that what I smell? I thought I tracked something in?"

Mom's face got red. "Excuse me?"

''Ah no, please excuse me. My sniffer..."

''Your nose, Monster," Zoë interjected.

She supplied the word in Russian and he nodded, "Yes, yes, my nose. It got damaged in the _gulag_, I do not smell so good anymore."

My mom and grandma looked stricken. _Poor Monster!_

Zoë sniffed his sleeve. ''You smell okay to me. Like bananas, yum! I like the smell of gun oil, smells like..." Her eyes got wide and she shut up.

_Hmmm, spending time down at the gun range again? _I thought.

Mom took the brownies out. "When they cool off a bit maybe you'd like to try one? And you, too, Zoë?"

''With cherry cola?''

''No, dear. With milk."

''But, grandma...''

Monster nudged her over to the sink. "Wash your hands, little one."

''I can't reach."

He boosted her up, turned on the water. Behind his back my mom and grandma exchanged raised eyebrows.

"And we need to give Killer a drink, remember?" said Zoë.

''Yes but he must have water. Your grandmothers do not serve Band-Aid.''

''What?"

He set her down, handed her a dish towel to dry her hands.

I stood up and got out Killer's visitor bowl. ''You mean Kool-Aid, Arkady."

''Hmmm. My mind is shambles these days.''

''Maybe you need a drink, Monster? Grandma Helen keeps her drink in that cupboard.'' Zoë pointed.

Mom's face got red again.

"No. I am on duty.''

"Say, Mr. Monster," said Grandma. "Any plans for New Years Eve? You won't be on duty then, will you?"

"Ah, I am not su.."

"Because I don't have date yet! I'm available and I'm a real catch!"

Monster was stoically polite. "I am sure my boss will have work for me, madam.''

"Too bad. So, do you think that young Dracula guy would be interested...?"

I tuned them out, lost in thought. We all ate brownies in relative silence. Yes I know Zoë would spoil her appetite for dinner, but c'mon. My mom's brownies straight from the oven? Or grilled chicken and steamed broccoli. You choose.

Zoë met my eyes. And smiled her daddy's zillion watt smile.

_No contest, mommy._

I don't have their ESP but even I can read my child's face.

... ... ...

**Anyway the brownie interlude** gave me time to think. I was scared, I was nervous, but I made my decision. I'd take over the torch of Thanksgiving.

Later, when mom and grandma walked us to the door, I stopped on the front steps, looked back. Monster and Zoë were ahead of me, headed off towards the black Cayenne at the curb. I said, ''Mom, Grandma, this year you will not work on Thanksgiving! I will do it ! I'll take charge. All you'll have to do is show up and enjoy yourselves."

They gaped at me.

I hugged them both and ran down the steps after my daughter.

Behind me I heard Grandma say, ''What just happened? Can someone explain to me what just happened here?''

''I believe we were fired.''

'"Bout time, Helen."

"God help us," mumbled my mom.

... ... ...

**Late that night I sat at the breakfast bar,** surrounded by coupons and list and notes. My iPad was dialed to Martha Stewart's website. I had everything all in order, all planned out. And I was going it alone. Ella would be away for the holiday, so no help from her.

I mumbled, ''I can do this! But what the fuck is brine? "

"Babe."

''Geez, make a noise!''

''What are you up to?" It was almost midnight and Ranger just got home. He smelled lovely, like brisk autumn air and Bulgari. I kissed him.

A while later he pulled away and asked me again.

''I'm doing Thanksgiving this year," I explained.

"Babe, you don't know how to cook.''

I sighed. ''Do you know what brine is?"

"Uh, pickles?'

''No! For a turkey."

''No."

''Did your mother make Thanksgiving when you were little?''

''Babe. You must be joking."

''What did you do?''

''We'd rent a big chalet in Vermont and we'd all fly up the night before—my dad and me and Nick, and Anthony and his sister, his mom and dad, our friends...Tank. Lester and his parents. It was a crowd."

"And your mom?"

Shrug. "Sometimes. Maybe. She works a lot, babe. You know that."

"Then what?"

"And then we all went snowboarding or skiing."

''What? Snowboarding?''

''Yeah. And Anthony's mom would cook dinner. It was lots of fun." He dropped a kiss on my nose."Would you like to do that, babe?''

I sighed. ''Yes. But it wasn't the deal. I promised I'd do everything, for them. All."

"Okay. Better line up a caterer."

.

_**the end of the story, series tbc**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>an inspired by Jersey Sue's very funny Thanksgiving short!**_

**a/n 2** The title refers to a silly poem that my brother gleefully recited every Thanksgiving until I was old enough not to have to spend the day with him! LOL.

[I don't recall the title of the poem..]

_**I have a bratty sister**_

_**If she got lost**_

_**I never would have missed her**_

_**On the rim of the Grand Canyon I hope**_

_**She'd step on a piece of soap. **_

_**Though I'd be near**_

_**Her calls I wouldn't hear. **_

_**Ooops, no more bratty sister!**_

_**Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy your turkey**_

_by Ogden Nash?


	18. Chapter 18 Dream a Little Dream

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.**

* * *

><p><strong>an **I found this on my hard drive the other night. When I wrote it I was highly criticized for Joe bashing, so I put it away and forgot about it. But after reading 18, it just seemed apropos. And well, I still think it's amusing. LOL. Enjoy.

[Cupcake warning?] No spoilers. Rating changed to M.

* * *

><p>Obviously it is out of order, should go right at the beginning of the story group. Zoë is newborn...<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen - Dream a Little Dream <strong>

_[Ranger]_

**I woke up and I was pounding away like a freight train** into some poor girl. I lifted my head out of her neck and took a look. _Oh shit! Stephanie? Babe?_

My body seemed to know what it wanted to do and my hips kept humping hard and fast. I looked into Steph's eyes, trying for a quick mind read and I got a figurative yawn and _Ho hum, Joe, can you just finish already? _Then she started a list of chores for tomorrow.

What. The. Fuck?

I slowed down and she murmured, "Joe?" I was gonna say, _no, babe it's me_, but I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the back of the open closet door (open closet door? I never leave the door…) And there I was/ he was—Joseph Morelli's pale-skinned body and messy hair, his grungy sheets, his unvacuumed faded rug, his hairy white ass, his teeny tiny little dick…you get the picture…were fucking my babe. And I was in Joe's head.

I slowed down even more and Stephanie heaved a big sigh. "Are you done?"

"No, not yet, um, Cupcake." I shifted my weight onto one forearm so I could use my other hand to tilt her face up to mine, get a better angle. I kissed her slow. Hot. Deep. Her sighs turned to _sighs._

Meanwhile I felt around in my mind for Morelli. Nope, he was AWOL, elsewhere, _nada._ And I looked at myself a bit more in the mirror, as I kissed my way down Steph's throat to her collarbone, a nip, a lick, another kiss. _Yeah, baby—_she was squirming now. My tongue touched her nipple and she bucked under me, I whispered something and she settled down while I worked her breasts.

Still doing the corner of the eye thing though…okay, my body wasn't so bad. I had hair on my ass and my back though, yuck! My biceps were bulging nicely and my white ass flexed without jiggling. _Hmmm._ I did the hip thrust again and Steph screamed, "OhJoeohJoe Oh—ah?" _Ranger?_ she thought.

"Shush, _mi corazon, es solamente un sueno—_it is just a dream, enjoy." I slid my free hand down her satiny body, touched her like I remembered she loved. My mouth followed my hand's path and we shifted positions. Once more, then again. I sensed her puzzlement but when I entered her again using Morelli's apparently trademark hip thrust, she accepted me [_him?_] with sensuous abandon. She wrapped her pretty long legs around my waist and we went on to new heights of pleasure—at least for her with Joe.

…

Afterward, she rolled away from me to her side of the bed. Stunned and rejected, I hiked up on one elbow and looked at her. I said, "What's wrong, come here, ba-uh, Cupcake."

"Why?"

"So I can hold you while we sleep." I loved to hold her in my arms; to bury my face in her sweetly fragranced wild curly hair and drift off to oblivion.

"Joseph Morelli! Who have you been sleeping with? Because sure as shit in the ten or so years you've been screwing me, you never once wanted to cuddle." Stephanie sat up and stared down at me, mad. Really mad. "And when did you learn Spanish? Is this some sort of ploy to make me think about Ranger? What the hell…?"

"Do you think about Ranger? When we make love?" I couldn't resist asking.

"Morelli, we—you and I—do not make love, we have sex! Generally nice, athletic, balls to the wall, cannoli spouting, Cupcake frosting, wild monkey shagging sex. But making love—ha!"

_We don't? I mean, you and Morelli don't? Then why…?_

I said, "And with Ranger?"

"Ranger has no place here in our bed, Joe."

_That's what you think, babe._

"Goodnight, Joe!" She rolled away again and went to sleep. Oh well. I'd get back to her later but for now I carefully examined the dim room_. Okay...Gun on night table - check. Loaded. Check. Cell phone - check—um, not check._ I could use his Beretta if I had to but I needed my own phone.

After a moment's thought I leaned across Steph and snagged her cell out of its charger. I whispered, "My phone died, I'm going to use yours, okay?" She nodded in her sleep. I got out of bed and hesitated, then pulled on a pair of Morelli's faded, not-very clean jeans. I went down to the kitchen and called Tank. Whispered, "This is an emergency! See if you can locate Morelli."

Pause, then, "Boss, the tracker we keep on him—it's inside his cop shield—says he is at home-at his house. Ah—Stephanie is there too."

I hung up. _Shit! Shit shit shit!_

I sat at his kitchen table and rubbed my eyes, trying to keep calm enough to access my stealth half-brother Anthony.

_Yo. _

_Yo, dude._

_Can you hear me? Feel me?_

_Sure._

_Am I—me?_

_Um, yeah. You been snarfing those magic mushrooms, man? I thought you gave that shit up years ago, that shit'll fry your brain, hermano._

_No! No drugs, something—worse! Look, Antonio, you gotta try hard, look at me! Can you see me?_

_You gotta stand in front of a mirror, man, you know that. I can't just, like, see you. Geez._

I sighed and went into the powder room, turned on the bright lights. Stared at myself—well at _him_—Morelli—in the mirror.

Anthony thought, _Dude. Oh ugly tattoo. _

I heard the microwave ding. I hissed, _Go back to sleep, I'll catch you later._

'_Kay. Antonio out…ciao, baby._

…. ….. …

I pulled out the Beretta and racked the slide, chambering a round. _God, I hope he keeps his gun cleaner than he does this house,_ I thought.

In the kitchen was a scrawny old white woman, all red hair and Botox. Familiar—oh. JE. JE, my—our—handler, I guess you could call her.

I sat down and aimed the Beretta between her frozen eyebrows. I said coldly, "What's going on, Janet?"

She tried to smile but I out-stared her. Finally she explained, "I couldn't ruin the series for the Cupcake contingent, but poor Stephanie is so miserable, Joe is a washout in bed and besides she's in love with you! So—I put _you_ in _his_ body." She smiled, an obnoxious satisfied cat-smile. I wanted to smack her.

I said, "I don't _like_ his body! And this house is a pigsty!"

She smirked. "Waxing? Tanning salon? Good barber? A few sessions at Armani…ah, um,—Merry Maids twice a week?"

I said, "Plastic surgeon, lady? Look at this effin' tattoo." I gestured to my eagle-emblazoned hairy chest with the Beretta. The wings spread from nipple to nipple and if the damn bird crapped it would fill up my bellybutton. And it was bright red and royal blue!

JE said, "The hairy white ass is worse, you just can't see it."

I said, "The tattoo has to go."

"Oh okay, " said JE. "I'll write it out, I'll say it was a decal for an undercover sting."

"A decal that lasted 4—or 15—years, Janet?"

"Who's counting?" she shrugged.

"A lot of people, " I answered. "Less each year but still."

She looked offended and opened her mouth to reply, but I held up my hand in a stop motion and we both listened. JE whispered, "What is that sound? A baby crying?"

I listened too. _Omigod, Zoë._

I sat up in a hurry and JE faded. We were in my bedroom—our bedroom—at Haywood Street, Stephanie cuddled against my side. I got up and went quickly to the nursery, picking up my wet and starving little princess.

A different unreality took over my mind. But a good one.

I changed Zoë and put her in a clean onesie. _I can't believe I have to say 'onesie'. But what the hell else can I call it? Her little footie, stretchy sleepy pink thing? It has a freakin' pink giraffe on the front._ Poor baby, I might not be the only one here with nightmares.

I microwaved a bottle for a few secs then we traipsed back to the master suite. Steph immediately curled tight to my chest on one side of me and Zoë nestled in the crook of my other arm, my hand aiming the bottle nipple into her tiny rosebud mouth. She sighed and crooned and slurped.

Steph crooned too and she woke up a little, said sleepily, "Are you okay, Ranger? Is Zoë?"

"Ssshhhh. I'm fine. We're all fine. Zoë's right here."

"What a _good_ baby, Zoë! Did Daddy change you, you smell so nice," murmured Steph, half conscious.

I said again, "Everything is fine, babe." _We're safe. It was just an awful dream…._

She asked, "Did the baby wake you up?"

"No."

"What then? A nightmare?"

I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then kissed Zoë too for good measure. I said, "You can't begin to imagine, babe."

* * *

><p><strong>the end of the story: because even badass mercenaries have nightmares—sometimes.<strong>

**series tbc**


	19. Chapter 19 Used to Be

_**Shelter from the Storm**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**Zoe is four.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen ~ Used to Be<strong>

**.**

_Ranger_

**Cocktail party. Who knew** having kids meant you'd have to appear at cocktail parties? AKA fundraisers.

This fundraiser was for my daughter Zoë's school and somehow Steph had inveigled my aunt Olivia Stewart—Antonio's mom—into donating one of her paintings for the auction portion of the festivities. And to showcase the art properly, the affair was being held in Manhattan at MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art. Olivia had paintings in their permanent collection and she would be showing new pieces in the Winter Showcase of Current Hotshots, or whatever the right word for critically acclaimed artists is.

Steph also volunteered Rangeman for the security detail, so I was having the amusing view of my so-called Merry Men dressed in expensive tuxedoes with Secret Service-style ear buds and curly ear cords. Binky in a tux! Get out!

Olivia paints huge white canvasses with a few smears of very pale color that somehow evoke her beach and ocean with just a few lines. I told her once, years ago, that if they weren't so white I'd consider buying one myself_. _Her spectacular series _Night Places [Ocean, City, Beach, Star, Surf, Home, etc] _was the result. And the only dark series she has even done. Most of the canvasses hang on my walls in the Haywood Street apartment. _Perplexing. Stunning. Black, _I mused, as I sipped the mediocre champagne and mingled.

I could hear Stephanie across the big room, her laughter a breath of fresh air in the subdued atmosphere of too much money and too much entitlement. She was wearing a black sequined short dress from Vera Wang and killer heels. When she first thought this gig up I asked her why, thinking she just wanted an excuse to dress up. But no. Seems she likes me in an Armani tuxedo, which augurs well for the evening's finale, later at our hotel. I booked us into the newly renovated five-star Pierre Hotel this time, figured I give the Four Seasons a break. They aren't crazy about my armed guards but too bad. They should be used to it, all those Arab sheiks' bodyguards and all….

Looking around the throngs of festive party-goers, I could see that the women of suburban New Jersey, the "moms", had risen to the occasion, all dressed similarly to Stephanie in barely-there dresses and stilettos, defying the frigid winds of wintery NYC and the prediction of significant snowfall by midnight. As Steph had said, it was more important to look good than to stay warm. And these people were beyond thrilled to actually be here in New York at an Event, even a nursery school-needs-cash event.

I completed my circumnav' of the big main floor salon, stopping to say hello to the newly re-elected mayor of New York, the governors of both NY and NJ, and some other bigwigs who came out not because they know me, but because they know Olivia, who—besides being a successful and fashionable painter—is the wife of a martyred (think 9/11)Wall Street honcho financier. Well, martyred if he and my dad aren't playing golf in Maui or whatever. We have our suspicions, ya know? Ex-CIA agents don't die, they just go undercover in trendy beach resorts and wear bad Hawaiian aloha shirts. The good news was that so far, anyone who knew me from my past or from my real life or my undercover work had politely pretended ignorance and deniability.

The security seemed fine, so with my supervisory duties over for the moment, I stood again in front of Olivia's painting. A guy came up beside me and I tensed up a little—balding/ too-flushed face/ okay but not great tux. Carrying at least 30 pounds too many and his tailoring wasn't good enough to hide that fact. I diagnosed high blood pressure or too much champagne and gave him a brief nod of greeting. _Hey, I can socialize if I must._

He shook my hand and introduced himself. "William Meyers but everyone calls me Pook."

"Carlos Manoso."

He offered the info that he was a broker with Merrill Lynch and tried to pump me for my financials. Failing at that, he segued into golf, bragging about his game. "I mean, I coulda gone pro if I didn't have to follow in my father's footsteps and be in finance…." M-L brokering is a fine career, but they are NOT _in _finance, not really. I am part owner of an international private investment bank, I know all about being in finance. He—_Pook!—_went on, "I have a really great swing for the long balls. Look at my shoulders!"

"Uh huh."

"I've always had a lot of strength in my arms and shoulders, ya know? You look like a guy who works out too, right? Spend time at the gym? Gotta preserve our youth and all that."

"Uh huh." _Not an issue._

"I really built myself up in college…"continued Pook.

I could take this guy out permanently with one half-assed kick to the chin. And I might.

"Because I was a Rhodes scholar, went to grad school in England. Man, I used to row for Oxford," Pook bragged.

I said, "Oh, yeah? I used to kill for the CIA. Excuse me, I need to find my wife." I left him gaping, walked over to Steph.

"Babe, we should leave soon."

"But the auction hasn't started! And the press wants pictures of us for Page Three of the Times. And _Town and Country_ and everything!"

_Are you out of your mind?_

I said, "No pictures."

And I disappeared into the realm of the backstage area and the security detail where I'd be safe and probably not have to kill anyone.

At least not tonight.

**the end**


	20. Chapter 20 A Long Journey to Christmas

**Shelter from the Storm**

* * *

><p>an I again find myself typing the warning that this may not make sense unless you've read my other stories...but I hope you ll enjoy it anyway. Happy Holidays!

sunny

_Christmas Eve with Mercenary Ranger..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty <strong>**~ long journey back to Christmas... **

**.**

**. **

_in the cold mountains of an un-named 'stan_

_12/25/xx 0100 hours, local time_

_._

**I was hunched there by the fire**, silently minding my own business, my mind many miles away...

_Merry Christmas, babe, I love you._

_Merry Christmas, chica, I love you._

_Merry Christmas, baby, I love you._

_I love you, too, daddy. I miss you. _I caught a whiff of big brown eyes filled with tears.

_I'll be home soon._

_I know._

_Merry Christmas, Killer. Um, yeah, okay, I love you. _More huge sad brown eyes, a mournful _mouf_. feelings of love. Killer is the family pug, you may recall...How can anyone not love a pug? I smiled to myself, damn dog always makes me smile.

then...

_Merry Christmas, man. _

_Merry Christmas, Ranger. Stay safe._

_Merry Christmas..._I imagined my aunt Olivia and my mom, sent my love.

_Merry Christmas, hermano, I lov..._

_Yeah, yeah you too, so why are you, like, all alone in 'Stanville, dude? Like all solo and all? I coulda come with, ya know..._

_I... [wish you were here...]_

_Yeah, me too. _

_I love you._

_I know. Be careful out there._

_Merry Christmas._

_Peace on Earth, dude._

**... ... ...**

**"I don't know what I pictured," groused one of the Navy SEALs**, "but I somehow when I signed up I never figured I'd be spending Christmas a million miles from home... waiting for the _go_ sign, on a black hill outside a black cave in the middle of fucking nowhere."

My reverie interrupted rudely, I turned my head a little and stared at him.

The man caught my look, and glared back.

"Never volunteer,'' laughed someone else on the other side of the tiny campfire.

''At least it's snowing,'' chimed in someone else. Yes. It was snowing. And cold.

The SEAL continued. "Still and all...I feel cheated, somehow. Like someone stole my wallet. And this place is spooky.''

''Yeah, Mikey. The 'Stan has, whaddaya-call-its, djinns. Genies...and they mad cos we here on our own holiday," another SEAL told him.

''That's right,'' laughed Never Volunteer—a guy who was actually called Jake. ''Yo, Mikey, probably demons took your gold and gave you the willies. When you get to Hell, you can ask for it back. Your gold, I mean. Not your willy."

"Asshole," groused Mike Lonergan, aka Mikey, second in command of the SEALs group attached to tonight's joint Special Forces op. Their captain was in the cave talking to the Army liaison, a woman of all things, an infantry major called Meacham.

She wasn't a problem, far as I could tell. Or at least not yet, but the cranky SEAL was getting on my nerves. This guy was no newbie, he knew what he signed on for.

Another man shifted his rifle, leaned forward into the firelight. His name was Joe (no, not _that_ Joe) and he was grinning. He said, "It could be worse. One time we was off the coast of, well, somewhere hot. Exfil was 0400, back as pitch out there. We get to our coordinates, we're standing on the beach, and we see...a little black floatie thing, rolling in on the waves. Like a half-sunk inner tube."

A couple guys laughed. "Oh yeah..."

"I mean, I was expecting an RCOGNV, you now?" _[ree-COG-nif] _He glanced at me and needlessly translated, ''A Radar Controlled Ocean Going Naval Vehicle? Or a heli? Shit, man, at least a rowboat! But no. So I get on the comm line, call the ship...Commander asks _What's our problem_, _he sent the zodiac._ I look out at the water and tell him, _I'm spec ops, man,__ I don't know much about boats, but I would say that one's upside down. And sinking fast, sir.''_

More light laughter. I frowned a little.

''And he says, _well in that case, I hope you can swim_."

''Oh geez,'' laughs someone else. ''And when we finally get to the ship, we're wet, we're cold, we're tired-Joe here tells the ship commander, _Merry Fucking Christmas! _and the a-hole commander as the nerve to get peeved."

Head wagged sadly, grins flashing in commiseration.

Mikey wasn't gonna let it go though.

After a short pause he groused, "So I got three little ones home, they're waiting for Santa. My wife's gotta explain to these itty bitty kiddies that Santa has another _more important _job. And how daddy left them to put up the Navy ornament with his picture on it all by their lonesomes. It sucks, it really does.''

I shrugged.

"What about you, Santiago, you got a real face on you there...They celebrate Christmas where you come from?" asked Mikey. "Or you're one of them guys whose kids go to school on our big holidays?''

I knew he was asking if I was a Muslim...or perhaps an Orthodox Jew? but I just stared. Hello? My code name was Santiago, does that sound Islamic to you?

"Fucking un-American," mumbled Mikey.

An uneasy silence crept over the campfire. These SEALs were my back-up not the other way around. And Mikey and the other men here just remembered that I am the paid assassin. They're just...window dressing.

Finally Lonergan said, ''Don't get offended, my man, I was just yanking your pecker. No offense."

''I suggest you don't yank on it,'' I answered coldly, "even it's not your pecker that's on the line here. But it can be. If I did decide to..." I reached down and grabbed the long spec ops KBar knife I had laid on the rocky ground at my feet. Mikey squirmed a little. I can even scare a badass Navy SEAL...with just a knife. Not that I need a knife, of course. I hid my grin and stood up. I was joking but the SEALs were now too scared to laugh. I added, ''I'm going to take a look around our perimeter.''

The small boy who had earlier in the op attached himself to us jumped up and followed me. He was silent but I still turned and motioned to him, with a finger in front of my face. He nodded and clutched his little scrawny dog in his arms.

Probably both of them were orphans. Unusual to see a dog here, Muslims don't like dogs; the puppy looked to be the offspring of a herding dog, the boy from a mountain tribe nearby. These tribes were shepherds and weavers, rug makers; not militants, but the endless years of war had brought death and loss to everyone in its path here, regardless. The boy seemed harmless, I'd ordered the SEALs to allow him to stay. So far I hadn't managed to get the child to talk to me. I didn't want to go through my entire repertoire of Afghani dialects in front of the Navy. They didn't need to know.

Now I tried a phrase, just barely whispered in the dark, "Are you hungry?"

Vigorous nod _yes._

''Okay.'' I headed to our vehicle where I knew there would be MREs stashed. Not tasty but nutritious. [Meals Ready to Eat]

As we slipped by the black cave opening the Army major stepped out. She paused and raised an eyebrow.

"Snack time,'' I whispered.

She smiled a little, said, ''If it's all the same, I would like to come along too.''

''Yes, ma'am." Even she didn't realize I outrank her.

She fell in beside us, looked at the little kid, "Seems we've got a kid, a dog, why not a woman?"

''No reason, ma'am. But it's not the Ritz."

We opened packets of god knows what. The boy and the puppy ate ravenously.

The major asked, ''You married, Santiago?''

I looked at her, best blank face.

?

''Nevermind." She made a face at the taste of her MRE and went on, " My husband is back home with the kids in Minnesota. Duluth, brrr! And they told me —I did a Skype convo earlier—that they made me a jewel box. Out of a cigar box from their grandpa! I said, _Get out! Why!_ And the little one slipped and said, _Because daddy bought you a silver locket._ With all their pictures! And they hoped Santa would find me. And give me their gift." She looked like she might cry.

''I hope he does ma'am," I said stupidly.

''What did you buy your wife?''

_An antique art deco diamond bracelet from Fred Leighton's and a new Porsche._ I must have said it out loud —Steph's verbal diarrhea is contagious? —because the major laughed.

The little boy opened another MRE and said, ''Shhhh!''

She nodded. Looked more closely at me. "Geez. Black ops must pay really well."

_Maybe. But you know, like good old Mikey, I'd really rather be home. Merry Christmas._

**the end of the story, series to be continued**

* * *

><p><strong>ESP conversations are with to: Stephanie, Julie, Zoe, Killer the Pug, Ranger's mother, his aunt Olivia Stewart, Tank, Anthony...**


	21. Chapter 21 Silver Bells

_**Shelter from the Storm**_

_**.**_

* * *

><p><em>"Silver bells! silver bells!<em>

_It's Christmas time in the city_

_City sidewalks, busy sidewalks._  
><em>Dressed in holiday style<em>  
><em>In the air<em>  
><em>There's a feeling<em>  
><em>of Christmas<em>  
><em>Children laughing<em>  
><em>People passing<em>  
><em>Meeting smile after smile ..."<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter Twenty One ~ Silver Bells<strong>_

_**.**_

**Trenton, New Jersey. December 20th**, four days til Christmas.

.

_Ranger_

**It is a frigid Sunday afternoon and here in Jersey**, it is snowing like a motherfu...um, a lot. We are in the Mega Stop 'n' Shop supermarket. I am carrying my 4 year old daughter Zoë and her bodyguard Arkady Petrovich, whom she calls Monster, is pushing the grocery cart in stoic silence. Monster is wearing a cheap red and white plush Santa hat that is his gift from Zoë. He is not happy.

Stephanie is out in this weather mess with Lula, hunting a skip. She figures the guy will have stayed home because of the near-blizzard snow. And so I have been assigned to Christmas cookie duty in her place—not that she'd be any use making cookies either. Zoë has decided that we must bake cookies for Santa and Rudolph. Not: _Ella can bake the cookies._ No, _we_ must do so.

A-Stan is looking really good to me right now.

I sigh.

Zoë, who is precocious, reads from a computer printout shopping list. "Daddydaddydaddy! We need flowers and sugar [!] and butter [!] and..."

Arkady puts a bouquet of sad red carnations in the cart and Zoë frowns. She wiggles down from my arms and stomps off to the baking aisle where she locates and hefts a 5 pound sack of white processed bleached cake flour [!]. She tippy-toes up and dumps it in the cart. It whooshes white flour dust which she ignores. She eyes poor Arkady and says, "Flour. Not—_flowers_, Monster."

Back to her list, she continues reading. "Cookie cutters." Drops a set of red and green plastic holiday cookie cutters on top of the flour mess. "Sprinkles, frosting, red and green sugar," she turns the page, "... butter, syrup, peanut butter, brown sugar, _white_ sugar!-'nilla, eggs, choc' chips, rolled oats...?" She looks at me.

I say, "Oatmeal, baby." She nods, continues reading, "...raisins/optional, cookie sheets, wax paper, oven mitts, cookie flipper..."

Arkady and I lean against the shelves of cake mix and watch her work, both of us awed into silence. And maybe Arkady is plotting my death, who knows? My Zoë is a tiny force of nature—a zillion volts of high intensity energy in a 40 pound body. Today she is dressed in—sigh again—a neon pink parka and neon pink snow pants that are tucked into the tiniest Uggs on the planet. She has removed her red and purple fuzzy hat and mittens and bestowed them upon Arkady to care for. Her big brown eyes sparkle and her dark hair corkscrews madly as she hunts feverishly for her supplies. Arkady and I are exhausted already.

Now she looks at her list and asks, "Daddy, what are _mul-ti-color-ed chocolate candy_?"

I say, "M & Ms. Candy aisle."

"Could you please find them? And the oatmeal, you like oatmeal, right? You can find that?"

"Sure." I set off as ordered but just as I am turning the corner, headed for the healthy cereal section, I hear voices talking loudly over the rattle of a grocery cart that is just entering the baking aisle from the other end. I freeze and put my hand on the gun stuck in the back of my jeans and, on high alert, I watch intently.

Cart comes around the frosting display and I am hearing familiar voices. I relax a little and wait.

Tall skinny stoner dude, lank dirty-blond hair, says, "Where are we, dude?"

Stockier, shorter guy with curly hair looks around cluelessly, says, "San Diego."

It is Mooner—Moon Man Dunphy—and his pal Dougie Kruper, the fence.

Mooner says suspiciously, "That's what you said last time."

Lost in their stoner confab, they heedlessly approach Zoë and Arkady who reaches under his purple parka for his gun.

Dougie says, "This time I'm, like, 40% sure. Reeeally, man. Forty percent! maybe even—45?"

"I dunno, Dougster. It's a bit of a dump—and look at all the freakin' snow! Are you sure we're not in New Jersey?"

Dougie finally sees Arkady who has drawn his weapon. He says, "I was pretty sure, but look—that ugly guy has a gun! Wow."

Mooner echoes, "Wow," and they stare at Arkady. Mooner says, "So, like, prob'ly, it's Jersey, right, my man? I mean, gun, snow, ugly people...?"

Zoë peeks around from behind her bodyguard and says, "Hi!"

Mooner and Dougie stop dead, then chorus, "Dudette! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas but I am **not** Dudette!"

Mooner shakes his head. "No ,of course not, you are InterGalactic Princess Zee, right?"

She nods. "That is right. Except it is _Zoh_-Eeee. I am InterGalactic Princess Zoë Emilia Manoso. I am four."

"Awesome."

"Far out!"

Mooner shakes her hand and says, "So, like, who's the big ugly dude, little babe? Is he your nanny?"

Kruper weighs up Arkady and says, "Very cool nanny, Zee."

"No, he is—my—my _driver_. His name is Monster."

"Dude!"

"Dude!"

"Do you know these persons, Miss Zoë?" Arkady finally asks.

"Yes, they are friends of Mommy's—she takes them back to jail all the time."

Mooner looks around nervously. "Not here, is she? I hope? I so don't want to spend Christmas in jail."

Monster asks, "Jail? What exactly...?"

Zoë says, "This is The Dougster. He is a dealer."

Arkady pulls out his gun again. Dougie quickly says, "Merchandise, my man. Only merchandise! Of a possibly questionable provenance, but still. I never sell dope, man, I consider fine weed to be like the best champagne, something to savor and enjoy."

"Uh huh."

Zoë adds, "And this is The Man in the Moon. He is a superhero like my daddy."

Mooner smiles sheepishly. "Maybe not _quite _like your daddy, lil' dudette."

Zoe says, "We are making cookies for Santa and Rudolph. We are making Monster Cookies!" She gestures at Arkady aka Monster as if that explains it all and brandishes her list. "We have to find flour, cookie cutters, sprinkles, frosting, red and green sugar, butter, syrup, peanut butter, brown sugar, _white_ sugar!-'nilla, eggs, choc' chips, rolled oats, raisins/optional, cookie sheets, wax paper, oven mitts, cookie flipper..."

"Whoa."

"Yummy, dudette."

Zoë nods importantly and tries to peer into their shopping cart. "What are you making? Cookies for Santa, too? Or brownies? You make good brownies, Mooner."

Arkady looks thunderous.

Mooner says, "Just stocking up on munchies, Zee. We have, like, supersized Frito Scoops and ranch Tostitos and kettle fried chips and dip and guacamole. Got us some frozen White Castle burgers and these taquitos. Mountain Dew. Red Bull...ah, some Dr. Pepper. Good shi—stuff for a snow day, right?"

Zoë, wistful, replies, "I would like a supersized bag of Fritos..."

I decide to intervene and walk back to the little ill-assorted group of shoppers.

Zoë is saying, "And we're gonna make peppermint white chocolate mousse"—hands on head being a moose antlers—"with real candy canes. And whip cream. Yum!" She wiggles her antler-fingers and we all stare at her.

Arkady says to me, "Food Channel, you banned Barney. Now she watches _Iron Chef_ and _No Reservations_ all the time. And that guy who eats bugs, she loves him. Zimmerman?" He shrugs.

Mooner and Dougie Kruper finally notice my presence and nod at me.

"Dude!"

"Dude."

Zoë says, "This is my daddy!" while we shake hands.

Mooner says, "We know, little babe. He saved our lives one time! We got (_whispers)_ kidnapped and Ranger rescued us! In Washington DC!"

Zoë nods. "I told you my daddy is an action hero," and smiles up me. She is so proud and happy and, inadvertently, I smile back.

A woman sidling by with her grocery cart, drops a box of eggs. We all step back and say, "Eeeeew."

The woman ignores the mess, stares at me and licks her lips. She says to her friend, " Adorable! Did you see?"

The friend says, "The little girl is really cute too..."

I suppress a cringe and pretend that being my child's hero is no big deal. Like Zoë's words are not just about the best Christmas gift ever.

We stand in stupid silence for a few beats, then Zoë looks at up me. "Daddy? Oatmeal? Raisins...?

"Sure, chica." I add, "Merry Christmas, guys."

And everyone—even the two silly women—says, "Merry Christmas, Ranger!" back to me.

**the end of the story/ ****series tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Silver Bells<strong>

Silver bells, silver bells  
>It's Christmas time in the city<br>Ring-a-ling, hear them sing  
>Soon it will be Christmas day<p>

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks.  
>Dressed in holiday style<br>In the air  
>There's a feeling<br>of Christmas  
>Children laughing<br>People passing  
>Meeting smile after smile<br>And on ev'ry street corner you'll hear

Silver bells, silver bells  
>It's Christmas time in the city<br>Ring-a-ling, hear them ring  
>Soon it will be Christmas day<p>

Strings of street lights  
>Even stop lights<br>Blink a bright red and green  
>As the shoppers rush<br>home with their treasures

Hear the snow crunch  
>See the kids bunch<br>This is Santa's big scene  
>And above all this bustle<br>You'll hear  
>Silver bells, silver bells<br>It's Christmas time in the city  
>Ring-a-ling, hear them sing<br>Soon it will be Christmas day


	22. Chapter 22 Red Duct Tape?

**Shelter from the Strom**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p><strong><strong>an more Christmas craziness! Remember that this series often uses movie quotes in the dialog...just in case it seems a little, ah...strange. LOL. This actually takes place about three weeks before the previous story; Zoe is four.****

****WARNING: Zoe's Christmas carol lyrics [non-religious] are possibly offensive! But she doesn't realize that.****

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Twenty-two ~ <strong>Red Duct Tape, Anyone?**

**.**

**.**

_Stephanie _**—**

**_It's Christmas in Trenton New Jersey_.** Ranger is in the wind, but due home any moment. Or any _day _now, I should say.

My name is Stephanie Plum, yaddah, yaddah...

We are putting up a Christmas tree! In the seventh floor penthouse we all now share. And Julie is here! Rachel let her come for Christmas again this year. And of course Zoë is a little whirlwind of a Christmas elf, all dressed up in red velvet and bright green tights and a too large Santa hat with her name on it...

We all have hats to match. And by god, we're gonna wear them. Or else. Monster, Zoë's bodyguard, bought them under duress, at the local Dollar Store. He has since made himself very scarce, lemme tell you.

Now Zoë surveys her staff with childlike pride, stuffs another cookie into her little rosebud mouth.

I don't care what Ella claims is in the 'healthy' cookies she has provided for today's tree trimming party. I know sugar overload when I see it.

I have enlisted the help of a crew of Merry Men, yes all with Santa hats, red not black, to set up the Christmas tree. Yes, they have sugar shock too and are bickering like a bunch of eight year olds.

Sadly Zoë chooses this crucial moment, _just as Lester balances our 12 foot Frasier fir on its new red and green tin tripod —_to burst into song.

You know. Zoë's famous mangled lyrics.

She belts out [to the tune of _Christmas in Killarney_]:

_''Ooooh de hall is green, de IV's green _

_de prettiest pitcher you'll ever see_

_and all of the fucks are home...''_

_**Crash!**_

''What did you say, little girl,'' bellows Tank. Omigod, he looks stupid in his hat. Scary.

Zoë smiles beatifically, red and green sprinkles in her little white teeth, crumbs all down her gorgeous red velvet dress.

Behind her I hear Hal tell Lester,''See, I told you we needed duct tape, man. Look, I brought this nice red duct tape to secure the tree to the wall. But nooo..."

"You know, somehow, _I told you so just doesn't quite say it_,'' adds Zero, who until now had stayed out of the fracas. "Everyone knows you gotta tape the tree to the walls, man."

Lester frowns under his Santa hat. "Ranger will kill us if we stick red tape all over his walls, my man. You have a death wish, Hal?"

Meanwhile Tank stands over Zoë. He tells her, "Go on."

She does:

_'The baby's door is open _

_My neighbor's Al Capone _

_And Farmer John before he's gone _

_will piss the hearth and home. _

_Oh the hall is green the IV 's green _

_It's Christmas in Poughkeepsie _

_and alla da fucks is home!''_

_._

Tank pales wonderfully. "Stephanie! Bomber! Did you hear what this kid is singing?''

I turn away from the re-levitating tree.

''Get a grip, Tank. She's four years old.''

From under the tree Brett's voice says, 'I can't get these screw gizmo things to turn. They're rusted shut.''

Lester and Hal are trying to steady the enormous fir and Tank is teaching poor little Zoë the proper words to the carol.*

I find it amusing that Tank knows this carol, but try not to laugh and hurt his feelings.

''Steph! We need some WD-40,'' orders Lester.

''Huh?'' I look around helplessly.

''You know! It's that spray shit, blue can, red nozzle? You've seen it, haven't you?''

''Uh...''

"Steph! Look sharp, here."

I put my fists on my hips and glare at him. "I'm sorry. My responses are limited. You have to ask the right questions."

"Where. Is. The WD. Forty? Is that clear enough?"

_Cranky pants,_ I fume.

Behind Mr. Grumpy, Brett is still yelling. "This tree stand is shit! It's a piece of crap! I must be, like, a malfunction magnet. Because your shit keeps malfunctioning around me. Why the hell ..." bellows Brett. All I can see of him is his black clad legs and black work boots.

"Excuse me?" I say loudly.

''Not you, Ms Plum, sir. Him!"

A boot kicks out towards poor Lester who lets go of the tree and hops away. The he leans down and tells Brett, ''First of all, stop cussing 'cause you're not good at it. And there's little kids here, man, ya know?''

Julie, a stunningly gorgeous child at age thirteen suddenly appears, looking just like Ranger. (Life is so unfair. She has no inkling of 'awkward stage' or 'baby fat'...). Her party dress is of course, black. Velvet. She stomps over to the black legs under the tree and hands over the can of WD-40. "Here! I was using it for my science fair project."

I open my mouth to ask then decide I don't want to know.

Brett says, ''You're an angel, my fairest lady!''

Julie steps back and sneezes. She wipes her nose on her sleeve and says, ''Sorry, I'm allergic to bullshit.''

Tank throws up his hands in dismay. ''Boss isn't gonna be happy his little princesses suddenly have potty mouths, Stephanie.''

I shrug. "Seemed pretty accurate to me. And why is Zoë crying? C'mere, honey.'' I pick up my wailing Zoë.

''I was singing a Christmas carol, just like on _Sesame Street._ But Tankie don't like my song!''

"Well sweetie, we need to learn the tune. And, um, the right words, okay?"

I start to sing and everyone yells, ''_**No!''**_

I look around. ''What?''

''Babe, she learned to sing from you."

_Ranger. Is. Home._

I throw myself...and yes, baby Zoë...into his arms.

"Babe."

"Ranger."

_**Crash! **_The tree falls again as all the Merry Men jump to their feet and just about salute.

Julie screams and runs to Ranger. He smiles, encircles the three of us, his girls, in his arms.

Ranger hugs us, looks at the catastrophe in his once perfect living room, once perfect life. The smile gets wider.

He asks me, "Do you ever have a normal day?''

I consider this. "Yeah. Once. It was a Thursday."

''How was it?''

''The normal day?''

''Yeah.''

''It sucked. Almost died of boredom, Ranger."

''You're living proof that it is better to be lucky than smart, babe.''

I kiss him. "I am lucky. Very lucky. I know that..."

Ranger's smile amps all the way up to its pinnacle zillion watts. He says, "Does believing you're the last sane man on the planet make you crazy? 'Cause if it does, maybe I am.''

I shrug. "Whatever. Sane is over-rated anyway. Merry Christmas, Ranger."

''Merry Christmas, uh—everyone," he replies. And actually eats the pink and orange sugar cookie Julie has put in his hand.

_and they lived happily ever after..._

... ... ...

_Merry Christmas! And to all a goodnight!_

* * *

><p><em><strong>the end of the story series tbc**_

oh yeah, just in case you didn't recognize Zoë's song:

**Christmas in Killarney [lyrics in red are what Zoë sang.]**

The holly green, the ivy green  
>The prettiest picture you've ever seen<br>Is Christmas in Killarney  
>With all of the folks at home<p>

It's nice, you know, to kiss your beau  
>While cuddling under the mistletoe<br>And Santa Claus you know, of course  
>Is one of the boys from home<p>

The door is always open  
>The neighbors pay a call<br>And Father John before he's gone  
>Will bless the house and all<p>

How grand it feels to click your heels  
>And join in the fun of the jigs and reels<br>I'm handing you no blarney  
>The likes you've never known<br>Is Christmas in Killarney  
>With all of the folks at home<p>

here's a **youtube** link to paste, to hear it: http [:/ /]www[dot] you tube [dot] com /watch?v=lFw87Ku_qWg pls eliminate the brackets and the spacing around you tube. Or just google the song...


	23. Chapter 23 HoHoHo Merry Xmas!

**Shelter from the Storm**

* * *

><p><strong>an **a version of this appeared as the epilog of Jane's Dilemma, which takes place during the time period of the three Christmas stories posted here. So in the spirit of holiday reruns everywhere...and just for fun/ maybe you've had a couple of long hectic days, just want to sit down for a bit...and maybe smile?/ And maybe you missed it the first time or won't mind a reread...here's...

Zoe is 4, Julie is 13, Ranger is still 30, Anthony still lies about his age...[27? 28?]

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty Three ~ Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas—<strong>

**Part One **

**.**

_._

_Ranger_

**"No, Daddy, it has to be the exact thing,** you can't mess around with a little kid's Christmas list."

I glanced at Julie whose teenage girl voice sounded just like mine when I was briefing my men for an op...and her face looked just like I probably do too: Determined to succeed at all costs.

But I said only, ''Yeah, I know.''

''Okay then." Head jerk, defining nod. "Let's try the big Toys R Us on Times Square." She set off through the front doors of FAO Schwartz, past the big mechanical toys clock and hiked out towards Fifth Avenue. I followed in her wake, watched her stand tiptoe on the curb to hail a cab, a determined little figure in baby-Goth black, her black nailed hand in long fingerless Bella gloves waving madly in the frigid air.

A taxi swerved across the four lanes of Fifth Avenue and pulled up with a prideful flourish of bad brakes and non-complying emission exhaust. Julie may be dressed like a little punk 'ho but she is still beautiful. _Her smile could light up Times Square,_ I thought. Then she said those exact words to the cabby and I grinned to myself. _Guess I'll find out._

But no, she gave me a frown instead.

"Daddy! _Ranger_...this is my first Christmas with Zoë since she's a baby. And all she wants is a pink and black striped Poopalot."

''Yes. You told me. She told me. Steph told me. We couldn't find one in Jersey. So here we are, chica." And the idea of XXXistan was getting more attractive every minute.

"You may think the Poopalot is just silly, daddy—just another "stuffy", another cuddly toy. But, no."

"No?"

"No. It walks, it talks, it purrs—"

_It poops..._

"—It learns your name! And it morphs."

"Morphs."

"Into a stainless steel robot with weapons integrated into its eyes and hands!"

_Oh._

"It's not a toy. It's, it's—a status symbol." Her voice dropped a little. "It's web-connected, Ranger. It does—Facebook! _And_ it Twitters!" she whispered.

The cab driver was eying me in his mirror. He was happy to pick up a child alone but not so happy when I appeared and got in with Julie. I suppose our resemblance—and Julie's way of calling me _Daddy_, in her chiding thirteen year old voice, kept the man from calling 911 and asking for the perv squad. Either that, or—I glanced at his hack license—Mohammed Imhad wasn't exactly as legal as he could be. I barked out, "What's your problem, goat spawn cur?" which is _asshole _in Pashto. The Afghan driver jumped visibly and sped up, hurtling us down crowded Fifth Avenue, eyes glued to the windshield.

Julie said, "What?"

I shrugged. If Zoë were here she'd be babbling away to the guy in his own language. It's creepy. Luckily Julie only speaks English and Spanish like a normal Miami kid.

We finally arrived at the Times Square flagship megastore Toys R Us.

We fought our way in.

We fought our way back out an hour and 34 minutes later.

Victorious.

And then it happened. A man darted from the mob of shopping-frenzied humanity (tourists, geez...why can't they Christmas shop in Oshkosh?). He made a grab for the shopping bag clutched in Julie's hand. The bag tore open and the pink and black striped Poopalot (bu_tton of authenticity in its ear!_) tumbled to the dirty sidewalk. The man made a grab, Julie made a grab. I shoved her behind me and pulled my backup gun—smaller caliber, okay? I took a page from Steph's repertoire and shot the thief in the foot.

He went down hard, yelling his fool head off. _What kind of cretin accosts a little Goth princess and her daddy anyway? An idiot._

Cops appeared instantly, just as soon as the action was over. "What happened, what happened, drop the gun drop the gun! Now-now-now!" I tucked Poopy under my gun arm, and with my left hand I fished out my universal federal undercover credentials, held them over my head. I said, "On the job."

"What happened?" yelled the cop. He was pumped with adrenaline and screaming. I could hear sirens too, background music.

Julie elbowed me aside and told the cop, "Daddy just shot a bad guy."

"Call it in, Carlucci, see if this guy is legit."

Toys R Us security came out to see what was happening. Julie stormed over to them, said, "That man tried to steal my little sister's Poopalot!"

"Your sister poops a lot? Huh?"

"No! It's a freakin' toy. We stood on line for almost two hours! And it cost four hundred dollars! Now go get me a new bag for it. Now!"

She stamped her foot in the black Doc Martens, added her famous smile and the man hustled off. I reached over and held her hand.

We watched paramedics bandage up the thief's foot while the cops clamped cuffs on his wrists. I said to the cop on the phone, "Try the mayor. He'll vouch for me."

"Yeah, right."

"Here—I have him on speed dial." I offered my business cell phone. "Or wait, how about the chief of police...he's in here somewhere." I squinted at the tiny screen in the suddenly bright sunlight.

The ToysRUs guy came out, followed by a store manager who had a new shopping bag for Julie. I reached under my arm, made to drop Poopy back into safety. And the thief burst into tears.

We all turned and stared at him.

I nudged him with my toe. "What?"

In a mixture of bad English and muddled Armenian the man said he'd stolen the doll for his daughter. Blah blah blah.

"Yeah, right," we chorused. Cute.

"Please." He held up his handcuffed arms and begged.

"Don't grovel, man," I said. His eyes widened with shock, hearing his language come from my mouth. Had me pegged as rich clueless American? Shit, the gunshot in his toe should have given him a hint.

Now the crowd around us went, "Aaaww." And, "Oooooh." Nothing like a NYC sob story.

I waved over the Toys R Us guy, the manager. He had a plastic ID on his lapel and wore a cheap suit. Jackson Wankawski. I handed him my card. I said, "Get the guy's name and his kid's name. And get the kid a Poopalot doll." I added a handful of hundreds."Keep the change."

The cop snickered. "Gonna have to deliver that to Riker's, sir." Riker's Island is the local lock-up, the jail, in New York City.

I turned on him and he quailed. "It's Christmas. No changes will be filed. Will they?"

The other cop closed his cell phone and returned my credential wallet. "No sir. I mean yessir. Whatever you say."

"Uh huh."

"You are free to go, Mr. Manoso. Enjoy the rest of your day in New York City. Uh, the mayor and the cheif send their regards."

I gave them a curt nod, turned to the thief who was now on a gurney headed for the hospital, I guess. I said in Armenian, "Merry Christmas."

He replied, "I am a Muslim, mister."

I sighed. "Merry Christmas anyway."

Julie and I walked away in silence. After a block or two she turned to me, said, "Feel better now? You got to shoot someone."

"Yeah."

"I'm hungry, daddy. You wanna get pancakes? Waffles, maybe?"

"It's 3 PM."

"And your point is?"

"Oh okay."

... ... ...

**When we got back to Trenton** we found Steph and Zoë and Britta, Zoë's nanny, and Monster, Zoë's bodyguard, and Ella all glued to the local tri-state news. Steph looked up at me when I kissed her cheek. She said,"Big ruckus in Times Square."

"Hmmm." I did my best blank face while Julie tried to sneak by with the distinctive ToysRUs shopping bag. But as she sidled by, a commercial came on and Zoë saw her. And the bag.

"Oh! That's for me? Right? Yes it is! I am sure it is. Oh boy you got the Poopalot! Didn't you, didn't you!"

"Uh," said Julie and I.

''But I don't really _need_ a Poopalot! Even though they are very cool and amazing...cos I have Killer—" She held up her chubby pug dog, her arms clasped around his fat tummy, little legs dangling sadly, little face set to _mournful_, "—who is awesomely much cuter!"

"And poops a lot," muttered Monster.

"And then daddy caused the ruckus! For a Poopalot!" Zoë cracked up laughing.

Julie scowled and whispered to me, "Can I just shoot her _now_?"

"No," I said_. Merry Christmas, everyone. Ho frickin' Ho. _

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two<strong>

**_._**

__Anthony_ _

**''Lancelot! Lalalala-LAAAnce-a-lot! The Pooooh-pa-lot!** He's stripey like an **ocelot!** I love **him** a lot, a lot, my pretty, pretty Poopalaaaaaaht!'' Zoe sang tunelessly.

"What the fuck?"

Grouchy guy with cornrowed hair wearing cargo pants and a grey hoodie stood across the room and glared.

"Uncle Anthony! You're home!"

"Sort of."

The little girl hurled herself into his arms. Obligingly he caught her, hoisted her up into his arms and gave her a big hug. He didn't wince at all.

Her skinny little monkey legs wrapped around his waist. She gave him a big smacking kiss on the cheek, then sniffed. "Eeeew. You don't smell too nice, Uncle Anthony."

"Uh..."

"I hope Santa got you some nice shave stuff, like boy perfume for Christmas!" The child wriggled down. The man allowed himself a sneaky pained grimace and sleepily watched the little girl run over to the enormous twenty foot tree that stood in his mother's two story ceilinged living room. The tree was sparkly crystal white and tarnished silver and faded red against the deep pine green. Everything else in the room was white. Except the white nightgowned child who had rosy red cheeks and wild black curls. And the ugliest god-awful neon pink and black striped stuffed toy imaginable. Zoë had a thing for white, frilly ankle length Wendy—like in _Peter Pan_?—nightgowns.

No rational explanation for the ugly pink and black creature though.

The kid flopped down and rummaged under the tree, came up with a small nicely wrapped present. She crooked a finger at the man who went obligingly to her side. He sat next to her by the big tree, same tree they'd always had since he was a child himself. That seemed like a long time ago, a long, long eons-type time since he'd been four. Or six, or ten.

''Mommy asked Santa to get this for you. She says it's why you smell yummy." She set the box in his lap.

''We should wait for your mom, baby. And your daddy.''

''They're asleep.''

"Yeah, well, it's really early. Or late."

The child craned her neck around to look at his mom's white grungy-chic, French country clock on the mantel. It was half hidden by pine and holly and antique silver mercury glass ornaments and dozens of white pillar candles. But the little girl said, "It's four forty-seven." Then, "Did you just get home?" A bit of scold in her tone.

He smiled. "Yeah."

''You missed Christmas. You missed Santa and presents and dinner with mommy's family, even Aunt Valerie and the Clown were there..."

"Oh too bad," he yawned.

"And you missed Christmas dinner, Aunt Olivia makes the best Christmas dinner in the whole world."

"I know, honey. She's my mom."

"And she was sad."

"Why?"

"I think she missed you."

"I missed her too. All of you." He had taken the solo op, one of Ranger's deep black jobs, so that Ranger could spend Christmas with this little girl and Steph and Julie and—and, _family._

Exhaustion washed over him. His mother's home had bleached white—well, ivory—heart-pine floors but in this room the cold wooden floor was covered with a soft hand-tufted white wool rug. He succumbed to temptation and stretched out by the Christmas tree. Closed his eyes. Pain and fatigue swamped him; he drifted.

Almost asleep he felt something nudged under his cheek. Zoë was stuffing a velvet throw pillow under his head. He moved enough to accept the offering. The gift box was twitched out of his lax grasp. The child whispered, "You can use this later." A soft cloud, a cashmere throw, floated over his cold tired body. Then silence.

_Clunk._ He opened an eye. Zoë was setting down a glass of milk and a plate of beautiful cookies, on the edge of the hearth nearby. "For if you wake up and feel hungry," she whispered. Then something was tucked into his arms. Other eye opened and he glanced down. "Poopalot will guard you and sleep with you."

"Uh."

"Just don't push any of his buttons. He shoots real bullets."

"Yeah, I know how that is."

"Real toy bullets, I mean."

"Oh, okay."

"Goodnight, Uncle Anthony."

"Merry Christmas, baby."

He fell into an empty pit of sleep. After a few minutes, his three little pug dogs, Rosie, Alfonso, and Popeye, waddled into the room. They snuffled up the cookies and lapped up the milk that they efficiently spilled. They were a little afraid of the Poopalot but they loved the sleeping man dearly...so they courageously nudged Poopalot onto their charmed midst, snuggled up against the young man like little sacks of warm furry cement. And all was peaceful on the morning after Christmas.

**the end of the story/ series tbc**

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews would be fun! Awesome. Appreciated. hugs, sunny<strong>.


	24. Chapter 24 For Auld Lang Syne

Shelter from the Storm

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.

* * *

><p><strong>an a prequel of sorts**...and the only New Years story I have to offer so...

Obviously this take place far before Ranger and Stephanie become a couple, and it is slightly AU for my Plum world. But what the heck.

Happy New Year!

.

HEA!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty four ~ <em>For Auld Lang Syne<em>: The Stakeout**

**.**

_[Stephanie]_

_New Years Eve...quite a few years ago..._

**Okay, this is maybe the shittiest New Years Eve ever**. I'm sitting here in a black Rangeman Explorer, another stakeout, just another day in the life of Stephanie Plum. As usual, I need the money, so I am working tonight, no party for this girl.

My ass is asleep and my teeth are chattering, it's freakin' cold tonight. Next to me is, without a doubt, the hottest guy in Jersey, maybe in the entire world. But is he keeping me warm?_ Noooooo._

He is sitting here silent as a Buddha, but thinner and cuter. My friend, my mentor, my boss - Ranger.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. Nope, nothing.

I say to him, "Are we gonna be sitting here like this when we're, like, 50, Ranger? What's up with that, anyway?"

He says, "Tank and Binkie are relieving us at midnight, I don't think we'll be 50 in the next ten minutes, babe."

"You know what I mean!"

Silence.

I say, "What do you imagine when you see us in twenty years, Ranger?"

Silence, though he looks like he might smile or laugh.

After a few minutes I say softly, "I guess dreams die really hard."

I am trying hard not to cry. And I make yet another New Year's Resolution. I resolve to move on with my life, to make a future that does not include dreams of a life with this man. Yes, I love him. And yes,_ I know!_ - I will always love him. But I am moving on.

I take a deep breath and stare out at Tank's headlights. It is midnight, two thousand-something.

Ranger looks at me and he says, "That's your New Year's Resolution? What are you thinking?"

Damn ESP.

And then he kisses me.

Ok, that's a record: Shortest Lifespan Ever for a Stephanie Plum New Year's Resolution. But as he deepens the kiss, I am warm and happy and who cares what happens in 20 years….

Ranger says, "Happy New Year, babe. I love you."

_Yeah. I love you too._

"Let's go home…."

…..

_New Year's Eve, Twenty years later_

**_._**

**Midnight. All our friends and family are here.** It's a warm winter night in Miami, our house is filled with balloons and flowers and friends and caterers; food and music and champagne.

Even our kids are here with _their_ friends. A miracle, teenagers don't usually want to hang with their parents on New Year's Eve. As we watched the crystal ball drop on the TV - Times Square never changes, does it? - I drank champagne and kissed my handsome husband and thought I was surely the happiest woman in the world.

I look at Ranger, still as beautiful as ever at age 50, god, I hoped I looked half as good…..I say, "Remember that New Year's Eve stakeout back in Jersey that time?"

He said, "How could I forget? You were going to leave me."

"Probably not."

"I'm glad."

"I love you, Ranger. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, babe."

* * *

><p><em>The end of the story, series back on track and continuing soon!<em>

_Happy New Year, best wishes to all!_

_love _

_sunny_


	25. Chapter 25 Guardian Angels

**Shelter from the Storm**

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.

**a/n: Zoe is about 2 in this story. A version of this may have appeared elsewhere, long ago.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 25 ~ Guardian Angels and Snow Angels <strong>—

_[Tank]_

**We watched the tiny pink-clad imp** run ahead in the snow. Dressed in black of course, we followed her like two huge shadows, our eyes constantly watching our surroundings as if we were in a war zone and not at a snowy park in Jersey.

The child stopped at a snowbank and giggled, turning to look at us. Her cheeks were as rosy as her snowsuit and her dark eyes glowed with joy.

"Daddy! Daddydaddydaddy! Snow."

"Yes, snow, chica."

She patted the snow with a mittened hand, then leaned slowly forward as if to taste the novel substance with her tongue. Beside me Ranger reached out quickly and said, "No, baby. Don't eat snow."

"No?"

"Uh-uh. Not ever. Especially not yellow snow."

She stared up at the man who was her mirror image, her face suddenly sorrowful. Her lips quivered and the beautiful eyes filled with tears.

"Is icky, Daddy?"

"Just a dog, baby."

"Pee pee? Like Bob?"

"…Yeah."

Poor Ranger. I figured it was hard being a badass and a daddy both. I did my best not to laugh but a snort came out anyway.

"Tanky? Is pee pee?"

"Uh….yeah. Let's find you some nice white clean snow, okay? You and me and your daddy will make a snowman."

"Snowman? Is like Rangeman?"

"Yeah. Only all white."

She smiled again, storm clouds all gone. This child had Ranger's face but she had her mother's mercurial temperament, happy one minute, sad the next.

She turned and scampered away again and we again scoured the snowy empty park for bad guys. It was a habit, what can I say.

Ranger of course said nothing. I said, "Don't look so glum, you imparted an important piece of paternal wisdom today."

Ranger said nothing. Tiny frown between his eyebrows above the mirrored black sunglasses.

"You know, next summer you can teach her about not drinking the seawater, too, that's next on your agenda."

?

"Man, you know—_don't drink the water, fish have sex in it._"

"I don't think so, Tank."

"No? What about, _Don't fly faster than your guardian angels can fly_?"

"No. I want her to fly. Her guardian angels just better make sure they keep up."

"We will, boss."

Ranger said, "I don't want the chains of the world, the _you shoulds_ _or you musts _or _no-no's_ to tie her down. My baby is not gonna suffer like Steph did. I want her to be free."

"Uh huh."

Ranger meant well, I thought, and god knows he loves his daughters more than anything in this world except Stephanie. But Zoë is the child of a very wealthy man who has a lot of enemies. And her mother is a disaster magnet. Ranger would walk a fine line all her life, torn between protecting his child at all costs or allowing her to grow as a person and be free. Lula and I wanted kids too, but watching Ranger now, well—it's a challenge.

We walked on in silence, catching up to Zoë who was making snow angels, with the joyful abandon only a two year old princess can display.

"Tank?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think she's too little for a Kevlar vest?"

* * *

><p><strong>The end<strong> of the story, series tbc


	26. Chapter 26 The Monster

_**Shelter from the Storm**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

**a/n** Zoe is three. This takes place the same winter as the previous story. We are again backtracking a little , to Zoe's discovery of her friend and bodyguard, Monster. enjoy.

_**.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-six ~ The Monster<strong>

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**"Daddydaddydaddydaddy**! Lookit! Lookit what I found. I found a monster! At the park! In the snow!"

Because she was my adorable three year old daughter I refused to admit that Zoë's screeching sometimes was a lot like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. Not that we use blackboards of course. Rangeman uses SmartScreens, nowadays.

I suppressed a grimace and looked at Zoë who was all scarlet cheeked and overexcited, bundled up in her [sigh] neon pink snowsuit. And she was dragging a mountain of a man, a huge bald white guy who could possibly make Tank look petite. Especially in the winter coat he wore, fur hat on his ugly torpedo head.

Zoë and her captive were followed by two black-clad Rangeman operatives, weapons drawn, and Britta, Zoe's nanny. All three of my employees appeared terrified, as well they should.

The man planted himself in the center of my office and said to Zoë, "I again assure you, my child. I am a soldier, not a monster!" Under his breath he added, "Хотя я иногда работать для монстров!" which in Russian means, _Even though I sometimes work for monsters._

Zoë got all big eyed and said, "What did the monster say, daddy?"

"He said his feelings are hurt, honey. And that he is not a monster." _But it doesn't matter because in two minutes he's gonna be dead._

Brett said, "Sir, we couldn't _stop_ him. Because of , um…," he rolled his eyes at Zoë.

Britta burst into tears and sobbed, "I am so sorry!"

Hal said, "We did search him, sir, he is unarmed."

I nodded and said to Zoë , "It's okay, baby."

She said, "He is sad! The monster is sad!"

I shoved back my chair and held out my arms to her. "C'mere."

Zoë ran to me and climbed up on my lap. I asked calmly, "Why do you think he is a monster, sweetheart? And why did you want to bring him home?"

"He is—No! Wait! Um—not a monster! Oh! He is all purple, daddy. You know—like Barney!" We all looked at Arkady Petrovich, KGB hitman extraordinaire, feared worldwide, and grinned. Even Britta.

Petrovich's winter coat was an enormous down parka in an very unfortunate shade of purple. Yep, Barney.

I managed to quell my laugh and said, "I think you mean _dinosaur,_ baby."

Brett choked and I stared at him. He said, "I never thought Ranger Manoso would know who Barney was!" Hal succumbed too and they both went off in gales of jackass laughter.

Petrovich said, "I do not know who this Barney is."

I stood up with Zoë in my arms, handed her off to Britta. I said, "You three are fired."

Zoë wailed. _Chalk fingernails blackboard…._

"Oh, okay, go get a snack. I'll talk to you later. Including you, missy. You know better than to talk to strangers!" I tried to do 'stern daddy' at Zoë.

Who stared me in the eye and said, "He is not a stranger, he is Barney. I watch him every morning before school. I am sorry I said _monster_, now I know he is a dyno-sour." She smiled proudly.

"You certainly are," I said to Petrovich in Russian, then to Zoë I said, "Yeah, well, from now on you either watch Sesame Street or the History Channel, no more Barney."

_"Wah! Wah! Wah!"_

Britta hustled her off whispering, "He'll never know, sweetie. And anyways, you have all the DVDs."

"Yay!"

…. …. ….

**Hal left last.** "You want me to stay, boss?"

"No. Close the door when you go."

I sat back down. I said, "What the fuck is going on?"

Petrovich unzipped his coat, said, "May I?"

I shrugged and he took the coat off, laid it and the fur hat on my sofa. He took a seat in front of my desk.

I said, "Talk fast and then you die."

"Now, now, Мой мальчик—my boy—, is that any way to greet an old friend?''

"We were _never_ friends. Competitors maybe. A long time ago."

"Yes, well, after the fall of the USSR, when all the Kremlin bosses and KGB people went _mafiya_, I—well,I..."

"Went along for the ride?"

"Yes but now I need to get free and start over. I can't do this anymore."

"Why should I help you?"

Petrovich heaved a big sigh. "_The enemy of my enemy is my friend_?"

"I think something got lost in translation there, Arkady. How did you find me?"

"I heard you were relocated to the hind ends of the world—Trenton, New Jersey. But I did not know what name you were using, boychik. I learned nothing on the streets and today I was so tired of walking and looking…." Another sigh.

"Poor you."

"I sat down on a park bench in the snow, just for a moment. You know? to regroup? And then the children came to play after school."

"So now you're a pervert as well as a monster, Arkady?"

He ignored me and continued, "And the little one in the pink clothing, the little imp, or angel, I do not know….She ran over to me and I saw your face. Your face on _her _tiny face. She is a very beautiful child, is she not?"

"Uh huh."

"Oh well, you were always far too handsome for the underworld we inhabit, weren't you? What name do you use now, Мой сын—my son?"

"You can call me Ranger."

"Ah yes, a reference to your military cover, is it?"

I shrugged again.

Arkady's ice grey eyes fastened on my own eyes. A hint of something-desperation or pleading. He said quietly, "Ranger, please. I need work, I need a home, I need a job. I need—a country."

"I'm supposed to hire a monster?"

"Who are you to throw stones? You sit here in your fancy office and you hold your beautiful daughter in your arms, so—so—respectable? Bah! You hold your child against your weapons, the guns that you never are without. And so I ask, am I the monster or are you?"

I am _always_ armed. And I am always dangerous. I said, "Ya know, Arkady, that's probably not a great way to convince me to hire the famous KGB shooter, Arkady Petrovich."

"But you will?" He sounded so hopeful, added, "I go by Andre Petrocelli now..."

"What, you traded one mob for the other?"

"I do not understand?"

"All you need to understand is this, _Andre._ I guarantee this about me: I _do_ always have at least two guns—and a knife—on me. But I won't need them to kill you if you ever betray me. In any way."

"You have my word."

"Welcome to Rangeman. Andre."

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Monster~Part 2<strong>_

**Ranger arrived home later** to find Zoë already asleep and Steph curled up on the sofa with a box of Kleenex, a lot of balled up discards and a very red nose. She was wrapped in the cashmere sofa throw, watching Ghostbusters. Again.

When Ranger walked in, she looked up blearily and said, "Hey, Ranger." Ranger leaned over to kiss her but she scooted away saying, "Doh! I ab a coad. You cash'it."

Ranger never ever caught a cold but he kissed the top of her head instead of her lips and said, "Poor babe. Not feeling too good?"

"No. I feel like shidt."

"I'll make you some tea, babe.

"I hate tea."

"I'll put lots of honey _and_ sugar and a lot of love in it, I promise."

Ranger walked into the kitchen and filled the Pyrex pitcher that he used for tea, put it into the microwave. Back in the living room he grabbed Steph's hand and said, "Let's get you to bed. I can make you feel better, you'll see."

Steph pulled her arm away. "_Aaaatchooooo!_ I don' think I'm up for that right now, Ranger. I'm _so _not in the mood."

Ranger stared at her in silence. When Steph met his eyes she was almost sure she saw a hint of emotion—hurt? anger?

She said, "Sorry. Uncalled for."

"Let's get you to bed."

Ranger scooped her up along with her Kleenex box and carried her into their bedroom. He set her on the bed, turning down the covers and propping up a pile of pillows, carefully tucking her in. The he turned and went to make the tea.

When he returned, Steph was snuggled into the bed, eyes closed. He stood for a moment and sensing his presence, Steph opened her eyes and looked at him.

He said, "Just for the record—much as I love fucking you, or before you, whoever was around—I wouldn't force sex on any woman, let alone a woman I love who is running a fever and feels ill." He set the mug of tea on the bedside table with a tiny bang.

Steph's eyes filled with tears and she said again, "I am so sorry. I don't even know…"

Ranger quickly toed off his boots and placed his weapons on the floor, sliding into their bed behind her, hugging her tight. "Shhh, babe, it's okay. Don't cry. Here, drink your tea."

He made sure she was drinking the hot beverage and then he gently began rubbing her back and shoulders, his big gentle hands massaging her stiff neck, lightly rubbing circles on her temples and forehead. He felt her slowly relax back against him, continued the hypnotic massage.

Steph said, "I really am sorry, Ranger. I am such a bitch. It must be this cold."

"S'okay, babe. Try to relax."

"But…."

"Shhh. Anyway, babe, you're in the right company, my new hire today called me a monster."

"No! How could he? And you hired him anyway? Was that the bear guy Zoë dragged home?"

"Dinosaur guy. Yes, Arkady Petrovich, ex-KGB, ex—as of today—Russian mafiya. And yes I did hire him, can't fault him for telling a bit of truth."

"You are NOT a monster, Ranger."

He was quiet for a few moments then he said, "I tell myself I'm a soldier, I'm not a monster…but Arkady was right, Steph. There I was armed to the teeth, holding Zoe in my arms."

"That does not make you a monster, Ranger. We've discussed this, it is more important that you are available and accessible to Zoë than that she never sees you armed. You _are_ a soldier—a fine soldier, an elite soldier in an awful, frightening, covert war. And you are a good man, a man I am very proud of, the man I love with all my heart."

Ranger hugged her against himself, rested his face in her curly hair. He sighed.

"And you're a wonderful daddy to the girls! Really, Ranger, you're a _great_ dad. Guns or no guns, it's not an issue…not the point even. The point is you love me and your daughters, you try your best. And you succeed."

"I may be a soldier, Steph, but some of the people I work for—they may be the monsters. Sometimes I just don't know."

"Surely most if not all are good men with good intentions? If they weren't you'd never take the jobs."

"Huh, well. Sometimes the bad guys have the right plan, y'know? And sometimes the good guys have really bad ideas, Steph."

"And then you make your choice, right? For us, for our country, for the _greater good_, as they say?" said Steph.

Ranger didn't tell her how much he and his men hated that phrase, but he said, "Lotta evil has been done in this world that was supposedly for the greater good."

"But not by you, Ranger."

"I guess history will decide, babe. How do you feel?"

Sounding surprised Steph said, "I feel great! A bit sleepy but it is amazing—it's like my cold is all gone! Geez, Ranger, you have magic tea. And magic hands."

Ranger hugged her gently to his chest, said, "Go to sleep now babe."

"Stay? Please."

"I'll stay til you fall asleep. Then I have to shower and get something to eat, it's been a long day. I'll be back soon, go ahead, sleep. You'll be fine in the morning."

And she was.

**the end**

A/Ns: 1- if anyone is lucky enuf NOT to know who/what Barney the Dinosaur is, pls check out YouTube for extensive playlists, esp "I love You…" and scenes from the show.

2- Zoe doesn't understand the conversation in Russian because she doesn 't speak Russian yet, she learns from Arkady.

3 Ranger talks/shares more than usual, I know, because at this point, in my world, he and Stephanie have a somewhat mature and occasionally open, sharing relationship. But not sappy.


	27. Chapter 27 Wasn't My Fault!

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**.**

* * *

><p>Zoe is 4. This takes place right after the Christmas story with the garbled Christmas carol lyrics a few chapters back. enjoy!<p>

This story has [rather obvious] movie quotes, see if you recognize them?

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>It Wasn't My Fault<strong>

**.**

**.**

_[Ranger]_

**It was a suddenly warm day, the usual** January thaw in Jersey. I ended my meetings a little early, and went upstairs to a blessedly silent apartment. That serenity lasted about five minutes—my peace and quiet was soon shattered by the arrival of my wife and daughter.

_Oh well._

"Daddydaddydaddy!''

''Hi, baby.'' I gave my daughter a hug and kissed Stephanie hello.

''Daddy!''

''Yes?''

''I am giving up ballet! No more baby ballet shit for me.''

''That's a quarter in Uncle Tank's new cussing jar,'' murmured Steph.

Zoë ignored her. "I am going to learn kickboxing! And tae kwon do at the Mini Masters Dojo !"

I looked at her for a few beats. In my admittedly limited experience girls took ballet _forever_. I know I still pay for Julie's lessons and I'm pretty sure my sister in law Jilly still takes classes now and then. Good cardio workout, good for posture and so on, she'd told me.

I raised an eyebrow.

?

And looked over at Stephanie.

Poor Steph. Looks like she'd met up with the famous garbage truck again, though I'd heard nothing from the comm room.

Steph blew out a sigh and said, ''Don't ask."

''I'll tell, I'll tell.''

''Zoë, no one likes a tattletale.''

''But mommy!''

''Okay, go ahead.''

''Well...school got let out early because a pipe broke in the girls' bathroom. It is so cold out that it froze. Then when it got warm this morning, it exploded... Why did it do that, daddy?"

''Let's get a beer and sit down,'' I said.

''I get a beer, daddy?''

''No.''

We got comfy in the living room. Ella produced drinks and apples and cheese. The girls kicked off their shoes and proceeded to tell me about their day.

''Mommy picked me up and since grandma and Granny M weren't home I got to help mommy and Auntie Lula chase skips.''

I must have frowned a little.

Stephanie said, "It was just Bobo Jankowsky. He was arrested for shoplifting, no weapons, or...''

''And a list of priors a mile long?''

''Well yeah.'' Steph shrugged.

''Go on.''

''We drove out to Hamilton County, Bobo lives on his mama's tomato farm. We knocked at the door and...''

''I'll tell! Wham! Bobo zoomed out the attic window! He has a zip line, daddy. It was so cool. Then we chased him.''

''Lula was yelling about how the guy's a maniac, she was all upset because the zip line went over a gully and into the woods,'' said Steph.

''Auntie Lula ran through the mud in her Via Spigas, her bestest shoes!—yelling, _I'll get him!__ Send a maniac to catch a maniac._ And then he got to a field full of mud and, and, and, old squishy nasty tomatoes, eeew!—and he jumped on his mom's tractor and tried to speed away! But mommy chased him with her new Jeep...''

''I'm glad I had the armor plates installed,'' I mumbled, mostly to myself.

''Yes! Because his mama shot at us! With a shot gun,'' Zoë told me happily.

Now I know I was frowning.

Stephanie caught my look. "Yeah, I thought I was history too but she was shooting up in the air,'' she told me. "Then the tractor got stuck in the mud. Bobo took off down the highway, on foot. As soon as Mrs. Jankowsky towed us out of the mud, I followed his trail. He'd run all the way to the Big Gas Depot truck stop. Hijacked some lady's Toyota at the pumps, I guess she was in the bathroom or something. But Bobo is _not_ a good driver—or he has thing for mud...''

''And?''

''Somehow he rolled the Corolla down another ditch, tires spun, he rolled the car. By then the NJ State troopers were on the chase, and well, we took him down. Easy peasy."

?

''Auntie Lula kicked the crap outta him!''

''That's another quarter, Zoë.''

''I don't have any quarters, mommy. I have seashells.''

''Okay, five seashell fine.''

''Three?''

''Fine! Three seashell fine. Anyway the cops weren't happy. They told me _What the hell happened? We're police officers! We're not trained to handle this kind of violence! _And then they all stood there in the ditch and laughed.''

Zoë added, "The fat man in the funny hat and mirror glasses told someone on his radio that _All of a sudden, this car turned into a cannoli. And the fat woman kicked the—_you know—_outta the poor sucker who was driving. _That was Bobo, daddy, the poor sucker. [Is sucker a bad word?]''

"[Not in Jersey.]''

''Then the fat guy said, _Send an ambulance.''_

"While we waited, I cuffed Bobo, and showed him the capture papers..." said Steph.

"Auntie Lula told us afterward that she was a good kicker because she plans to maybe someday take kickboxing or tae kwon do. And I said, _Me too, me too_. Okay, daddy?"

''We'll talk about it tomorrow, baby.''

... ... ...

_later..._

''Stephanie...''

''I know, I know! When the chase started my whole life flashed in front of me. I thought ...''

''Babe, there's many a day I live in dread that your life force will be prematurely terminated."

"So to speak."

"Right, terminated, so to speak. We don't talk about it, you do what you need to do. I understand that, babe.''

''Ranger...''

''But please promise me you won't ever take Zoë on the job again.''

''I'll try.''

"Try hard."

_**the end of the story, series tbc**_


	28. Chapter 28 A Valentine Surprise

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

* * *

><p>This takes place at the same time as, or just before Jane's Dilemma. enjoy!<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 28 ~ The Valentine Surprise <strong>

_Lester_

**It was mid-February, New Jersey grey** and dismal. I was on an in-country rotation and lucky me, I was spending my days**_—_**and nights of course**_—_**training this new guy that Ranger hired. We called the new man Dave Smith. That's one of Ranger's little CIA jokes, he calls everyone who needs an AKA either Smith or Jones. I was not exactly training this man**_—_**more I was showing him the ropes: how to navigate around Jersey, where stuff is, who the good cops are, who the bad cops are, making sure that Doug understood that here in Trenton we don't just shoot**_—_**or stab**_—_**our way out of tight spaces. Because lemme tell you, this guy was Interpol's Ten Most Wanted poster boy, the face that launched a thousand agents**_—_**for sure I recognize Dragan Dardasqu' when I see him.

So far, Drag seems like a fast learner.

Now we pulled into the Haywood Street underground garage at the end of a tedious day. Over by the elevators I noticed movement and put a hand on my gun. Drag peered through the wind shield, said, "Eeet eeez leetle Miss Zoë and ze _bonă__,_ the luuuvley Breetah." _nanny_

Good thing Dragan didn't talk much because his accent was really annoying. He sounded like the guy on Sesame Street. However his assessment was correct. I parked the car and looked over the scene. There was a large blue tarp taped to the cold concrete floor and Britta and Zoë were on their hands and knees doing, well, _something_ incomprehensible. The floor really wasn't that cold, since Rangeman's garage was heated. Ranger likes his German sports cars kept toasty warm. But it wasn't not my idea of a fun place to play.

Britta's shiny blond head was bent near Zoë's dark curls and both seemed intent on their project. Watching over them was Zoë's bodyguard, Russian hitman Arkady Petrovich (are you seeing a theme here?) aka Monster who though alert and armed**_—_**very armed**_—_**had commandeered a canvas sling director's chair to oversee in comfort whatever the girls were up to.

I said to my trainee "You go ahead, I want to check this out."

Scornful green eyes. "I will accompany you." [_"I vill ah-com Panny yvou."]_

Grrr! Count Dracula speaks. I winced and halfway out of the Explorer I turned back to him and said, "Ranger ever talk to you about diction lessons, man?'

Ranger detests regional accents, he likes that military army flat-speak unless someone is undercover and uses an accent for a reason. Dragan turned his dead man's eyes on me again and replied, "No. He hasn't. Is there a problem, Santos?" Not a speck of Romanian accent, geez. He sounded born and raised in, like**_—_**Kansas. Or California.

I mumbled, "Nevermind," and he took his hand off his gun. I added_, "_Suit yourse**_—_**"

"Hello hello hello!" yelled Zoë who caught sight of us approaching. She flung herself at me and I gave her a hug and a twirl. I said, "You remember Dave, right? From the park?" She nodded and gave Drag a little smile.

She said, _"__De ce nu se spune __Dave?" why do they call you Dave?_

Dragan shrugged and answered in the same language. Zoë nodded, said, "I shall call you Dragon anyway. Come on, come on! Both of you come see. We are making Valentines, see?"

Yeah, we saw. The tarp was covered with an explosion of stickers and glue sticks and kiddy scissors; bags of little candies, all kinds of frilly girl stuff, what a mess. And everywhere you can imagine was dusted with red glitter. We stopped a few safe feet away, nodded at Monster, said hi to Britta, the hot little blonde au pair from Sweden. Zoë was still talking, of course. "Britta says that so much glitter makes Ella nervous, maybe daddy won't want his house full of glitter! So we came here to make Valentines for _everyone!"_

_Yeah like he'll love it all over his freakin cars, baby._

Zoë went on, "See! These are little heart boxes. I saw them on _Martha Stewart_ on TV and I am making them for all my best friends at school...''

"For everyone in your class, Zoë," interjected Britta gently.

Nod."Yeah, yeah. And _see?_ They are to be blinged and glittered, filled with red hots and sweetie hearts and one special chocolate truffle for each best friend!"

"I don't see any truffles." I looked carefully. I love chocolate and you can imagine it is a rare sight here at Rangeman.

Huge dramatic sigh from Zoë. "Uh, Killer ate all the truffles...he thought they were ever so yummy, he just gobbled them all UP! ...then he barfed and made a mess in all our glitter and stuff where we was working in the living room and the glitter got all over and and and..." Little arms waved wildly.

"Nevermind, chica, I get the picture."

Dragan finally spoke up."Is the little dog okay?"

"Mommy took him to the vet but she called and told us he's fine 'cos he puked up the truffles. Because doggies aren't allowed to eat chocolate, is that not ever so sad?"

"Good to know."

"She'll be home soon and I don't want her to see this special Valentine I am gonna make for her and daddy." Zoë brandished a large recycled Whitman's chocolate box, shaped like a heart.

I said to Britta, "That's so nice of you to help Zoë." She glanced at me, then her eyes went back to Drag. Mesmerized. I tried again, more flirt in my voice, "Any Valentine plans, sweetheart?"

Her eyes flicked to me then dismissed me. Dragan squatted down by Zoë, oblivious to the red glitter mess. Zoë chattered to him a mile a minute and a faint smile crossed his face. Britta heaved a big sigh, which the assassin ignored. He sat all the way down with Zoë, and...my cell rang. Tank: _Get your ass up here, I need to see you about the ..."_ As I walked away I could hear Dragan's quiet voice and Zoë's enthusiastic, if unintelligible, response.

The elevator whooshed open, and as the doors closed I could see Arkady's worried face, he spoke and Zoë started to wail. I hit the Open Door button and was ready to intervene. But no, he had dropped to his knees on the tarp too. There she was, little mini Ranger, surrounded by her tame hitmen and six pounds of shiny red dust. Little girl heaven. I went up to five.

* * *

><p><em>a few days later: Valentine's Day, almost midnight<em>

_._

_Stephanie_

**I came home late from a fruitless hunt for one of Vinnie's FTA'**s. Ranger must have come in just before I did because I could hear the shower running, music softly playing. In the dining room the table was set for a romantic midnight supper, candles in votives, white roses, nice china and real silver silverware. _Ella had fun,_ I grinned to myself.

I slouched down on the leather sofa, closed my eyes. The music was cool, what was that anyway? Some instrument, not guitars or bass but...? I supposed Ranger would know.

I let myself relax for a moment, suddenly aware of my happiness. We were all home and safe; champagne was cooling in a silver ice bucket next to my feet in my ratty Vans. The man I love was actually here with me. I could forget**_—_**or ignore**_—_**all those times when he had to be gone, god knows where, doing god knows what. All the years of confusion, angst, of Ranger pushing me away for my own good, countered by my irresistible urge to come as close to the flame, the fire that is Ranger, warring with his need for control.

I smiled to myself, thought, _It's working. Go figure..._

* * *

><p><em>Ranger<em>

**I walked out of the bedroom and stopped** short at the archway to the living room. Stephanie was home, and it looked like she had fallen asleep before the fun began. She looked tired but beautiful, her pretty pink lips parted, half smile, half snore. _My goddess_.

Silently I sat down by her side. I drew her Valentine gift from my pocket and very gently clasped it around her throat. The chocolate diamond nestled in the hollow of her neck and sparkled intriguingly. I nudged it aside and kissed the tender spot where it had lain. My mouth followed the black silk cord around to the side, I nuzzled under her ear. She murmured and stretched, tilting her chin aside to grant me more access.

Then she woke up.

"Oh!"

"Happy Valentine's Day, babe."

"I? You..." She was dopey with sleep.

I said, "I brought you a present."

Blue eyes went wide."You did? Where is it?''

I said, "Right here," and touched her throat.

Steph's hand followed mine then she jumped up and ran to the powder room to see. I stood behind her into he open doorway. "It's amazing, Ranger, what is it?"

"It's a chocolate diamond," I said. "Seemed appropriate..." The necklace was a chocolate diamond the size of a thumbnail, surrounded by tiny perfect white diamonds and suspended on a slim black silk cord. The clasp was a pave' diamond toggle and loop. "I thought a chocolate diamond was perfect for you."

"It's so extravagant!" _Is it insured?_

"Perfect for the street, babe, low profile. And, yes, it's insured." She couldn't wear her diamond heart from Choppard all the time, it was so obviously what it was...and could make her a target.

"I love it! I love you!"

She threw herself into my arms and I happily carried her back to the sofa. "Champagne?" I asked.

"My hero!"

I smiled and we clinked glasses, kissed again. But her "my hero" worried me. Did Steph still think of me as Batman? The armed and dangerous black knight who saved the day...and her pretty ass? _Did she really think that was who I am? And did she think that fairy tale shit was what made us special? _

Stephanie has no ESP at all but my sudden withdrawal caught her attention and she set her glass down, took my glass and set it down too. She scrunched close to me, my wrists held in her hands, her eyes locked on mine. She said, "You'll always be my hero, Ranger. Not because you've saved my life but because I know...I know, deep in my heart, in my soul, that you'll always be here for me, for us. For the good times and the bad times..."

"For whatever, babe."

"You made it home when Zoë was being born..."

"Took presidential intervention but I made it, babe," I said.

"I know I can trust you, depend on you. _That's_ why I love you..."

Our lips met, time suspended into nothingness...I lowered her down onto the couch and...

_"Mommymommymommy, daddydaddydaddydaddy!"_

We sat up so fast Steph banged her head on my chin. "Ow!"

"Daddy! What were you guys doing? Mommy, are you okay?"

Stephanie smiled and stretched out her arms."Hi, sweetie! Happy Valentine's Day!"

Zoë evaded the hug and looked suspicious. "I waited all day! I was sad!"

I said, "Zoë, chica, I gave you your Valentine this morning, remember?" A black velvet bat toy and a tiny pink version of her mother's necklace. (What? Yes it's a diamond, she's my princess. So sue me for being extravagant. Geez.) "And we had heart shaped pancakes."

"Yes but this is for both you and mommy. It's a surprise! A _big_ surprise."

From behind her back she produced a messily wrapped package.

"Open it!"

Inside was a large heart covered with bits of red ribbon and stickers and shiny _Bejeweled_ gems. In her little girl printing, in the center it said, **To Mommy & Daddy****. **She pointed at the writing. "I wrote that note my very own self! I am only four, you know!"

"Very nice writing, Zoë,'' I told her.

"Open it!"

"Okay, okay." I patted the sofa, "Come help?''

But she lingered shyly on the other side of the coffee table, Killer the pug at her feet.

Steph and I together lifted the lid.

**KABOOM!**

The fucking thing exploded with a loud bang and massive quantities of red and black confetti shot out all over the room, over us, over Killer, in the champagne. It floated down from the ceiling and stuck in Steph's eyelashes and, oh geez, it was everywhere.

The front door banged open and Tank and Manny rushed in, guns drawn.

When they saw us they stopped short, openmouthed. Confetti drifted in. Tank made to spit, but then wiped his mouth on his sleeve instead. The confetti was little metallic shapes: tiny red kissy lips, pink hearts, silver champagne glasses and little black Batman logos. We'd be cleaning it for the next ten years.

Manny mumbled, "What the fu...?"

Zoë grinned beatifically and said, "Dragon helped me. He's good at blowing things up, he says."

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><p><strong>Epilog<strong>

**Cut to Drag and Britta on their date** that Zoë has maneuvered them into. Dragan, for one, didn't mind at all-Britta was hot, and sweet too. Not to mention athletic-looking. Drag liked that part a lot, he had fantasies about athletic-looking Swedish blondes. Over dessert he said, in his phony Midwestern accentless voice, ''I hope the boss likes his Valentine from Zoë. I just wish we'd been able to rig a camera in the loft."

Britta giggled. She said, "He loves anything Zoë does. He's the best daddy." She smiled at the handsome young Romanian hitman, hoping he got the idea. Britta wasn't stupid. Blonde and beautiful: yes, stupid: no. She understood that the hot young men in black who worked for her employer were ex-soldiers. At best. But this man, with his long black hair and green eyes and all those muscles..._oh, who cared!_ she thought. "He's a wonderful father."

"Hard to imagine," said Dragan sadly.

Happy Valentine's Day/ the end of the story, series tbc

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><p>Reviews are always treasured!<p>

love

sunny


	29. Chapter 29 Cupid's Folly

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**.**

This takes place at the same time as the previous 2 chapters. Zoe is 4.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-nine ~ Cupid's Folly<strong>

**.**

_Stephanie_

**I walked into the bonds office** on a sunny February morning and playfully announced, "Agent Plum reporting for scumbag duty! And bringing gifts! Happy Valentine's Day!"

I set the pink box of Dunkin Donuts and go-tray of coffees on Connie's desk.

Lula looked up from Star magazine. "You in a good mood today. You musta got some...oh. You brought the kid."

Zoë was with me this morning but I figured I had childcare covered.

Connie screwed the cap back onto her Valentine red nail polish and gingerly opened the box of donuts. "Hi, Zoë!"

''Hi, Ms Connie.'' Zoë gave the ladies her million watt smile and everyone sighed. Zoë is relentlessly adorable since she looks just like her daddy.

Lula came over. "What's new with the little assassin? She on the job today?'' She jerked her head at Zoë. "Don't she have school?"

Zoë looked up at Lula. "No, I'm home because I'm pretending to be sick," _cough, cough_. "See? I got a cough."

"You ain't supposed to admit you're faking, little girl."

"I am a princess! Not Little Girl or an ass!"

"Hunh..." Lula looked at me.

"She's not sick, there's no school. The teachers have some sort of planning day."

''She comin' with us?''

''No. I promised Ranger I wouldn't bring Zoë on the job."

"Too bad.''

"...So if you have any files for me, Con, I'll just drop her off at my mom's on the way to...wherever."

Connie had finally maneuvered the donut box open and we all peered in.

"Oooh. All them donuts is pink or red! Like it's a birthday or something," sighed Lula. The pastries had pink or red frosting and pink or red glitter sprinkles and tiny red heart candy confetti. Very cute.

I told Lula, "They're on special this week at Dunkin Donuts. It's Valentine's Day, remember?"

"Daddy gave me this for my Valentine! I looooove him!" Zoë displayed her new bat stuffy. It was made of cuddly black velvet plush and it had little black beady eyes, black satin wings. In its little bat hands it held a tiny red heart that said, _Daddy Loves Me_.

We all went, _Aaaaw._

I handed a plain [but pink!] cake donut to Zoë along with a small box of juice. She stuck her beloved little furry bat toy under her arm and took her treats over to the Naugahyde sofa.

''Wait!'' I yelled. _I'm becoming my mother_, I thought, as I ran over with the canister of disinfectant Wet Ones and wiped the old couch down.

"Cooties, mommy?"

''Not anymore, sweetie.''

"Good, cos Batty don't want cooties."

Zoë climbed up on the sofa and I turned back to Connie, ''So? Files?''

''I have a new one for you, Steph. Justin Simmons." She handed me a file. Simmons was twenty-four years old, blond curls, blue eyes, and cherubic smile even on his mug shot.

"Gee, he doesn't look like trouble..." I bit into my pink Boston crème and turned the page. "Indecent exposure?"

"Mommy, what's...?"

''Um...''

''I'll explain, Steph," intervened Lula.

''Lula...'' I started to tell Lula I didn't want her explaining the facts of life...or skips—to Zoë.

Lula got on her rhino face and told me, ''Don't worry, I speak their language. Kids "get" me."

_Oh, geez._

Lula told Zoë, "It's when some person of the male persuasion has droopy jeans, little girl."

"Oh. Uncle Anthony wears droopy jeans. And his belly button shows and he has a diamond in it! And sometimes daddy wears droopy jeans too. But not a diamond in his belly button."

We all pictured that for a moment in respectfully awed silence, then, "This guy's jeans drooped _too much_," Lula told Zoë.

"Oh. Did he have a diamond?''

"Probably not."

I finished reading the file. "Any intell, Connie?"

Connie started on a red-frosted cruller. "Lucky for you I know where Simmons is working now. Victoria's Secret has a Cupid promotion going on, women get to sit on Cupid's lap and tell him what they want for Valentine's Day. And Simmons is playing Cupid there in the store. At the mall. He's kinda like an X-rated Santa in a diaper and little red wings."

"I'd like red wings, mommy.''

"So anyway some idiot boyfriend came into the store to meet his sweetie, he saw her sitting on Cupid's lap and went ballistic. Cupid ran out the back of the shop, into the general storage area. Just as he ducked behind some old moldy gingerbread house leftover from Au Bon Pain's Christmas display, the boyfriend caught Cupid—well, Justin, by his little white Cupid undies. The undies tore off in the scuffle and when the rent-a-cops finally arrived, there was Cupid wearing only his little red glitter wings and trying to hide his," glance at Zoë, "_assets_ behind his little red glitter bow and arrow."

"A red glitter bow and arrows would be awesome, too, mommy."

"Mmm...''

"So mall security arrested him, Vinnie of course bonded him right out...probably thought they were soul mates or something."

''Yeah, if ducks shopped at Victoria's Secret,'' muttered Lula.

''Simmons didn't show up in court. When I got him on his cell he said he was back working at the Victoria's Secret gig and he'd check in after Valentine's Day. Unless he gets a job being the Easter Bunny...so there ya go. A trip to the mall."

Zoë climbed down from the couch and came over to the desk.

I looked at Lula. She had pink glitter sprinkles from her éclair scattered across her ginormous chest which was today encased in red tiger stripe lycra.

''You ready?''

Lula nodded. ''Let's roll!''

''We'll just drop Zoë off at my mom's on the way." I dialed my parents' number—no answer. I called Valerie, who listened for about five seconds and then yelled, ''We all have stomach flu, Steph!" The phone clattered and I heard her yelling, ''Albert! Get out of the bathroom, I am coming in!"

_Eeew._ I sighed.

''She could stay here with me,'' offered Connie.

Zoë reached up on tiptoes and took a handful of pencils out of Connie's _World's Best Lay_ mug with the big red kissy lips. And she began shoving them into Connie's electric pencil sharpener. A loud high-pitched grinding noise filled the bonds office.

We all cringed and from behind his closed office door, Vinnie yelled, ''What the fuck!"

Zoë shoved in a red Sharpie pen. The squeal ratcheted up a few teeth-curling notches.

The pen exploded red ink everywhere and then the sharpener jammed and died. Zoë tugged on the pen and said, ''Ooops."

Connie sighed. "Or maybe not." Connie now had red Sharpie freckles all over her face.

I grabbed the file and Zoë's hand. "C'mon, baby! You're gonna spend Valentine's Day with your daddy!"

''Yay!"

_**the end**_


	30. Chapter 30 Do You Promise Not to Tell?

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**a/n **_This story is smidge out of my story arc. Even tho Zoë is 4, it actually takes place the Feb before the Christmas stories a few chapters back..._

_for Mouselle, she will know why...I think! enjoy._

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><p><strong>Chapter 30 ~ <em>Do You Promise Not to Tell?<em>**

**_._**

_Julie _

**The curly haired princess stared at me**. I knew that stare, I inherited it too. So I just stared right back at her, channeling my inner badass Ranger.

There she sat in the black leather backseat in her tiny little black velvet flounced miniskirt and pink t-shirt with silver sparkles. Pink Uggs. Little black puffer jacket. Mad, wild curly black hair. Accessorized with a cute little dog—a _real_ dog, tan with a black face, pink sweater and a pink sequined collar. It was snoring, face squinched up on its paws. The kid's outfit screamed designer—not sure what message the dog was sending. It reminded me of the dog in those Eloise books, you know—the little rich girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in NYC?

_Very manly dog, daddy_, I thought scornfully

The silence dragged out, underlined only by the high performance throb of the Cayenne's engine. We were driving back to Trenton from the airport at Newark. I was here for a week, a get-to-know-everyone visit during winter break. Like anyone really wants to leave sunny warm Miami in February and go north to New Jersey! I frowned at the little girl beside me, refusing to break my glare. And she did a pretty darn good job of glaring back, but after a few miles the child's big brown pansy eyes widened and started to fill with tears. _Geez, Julie, _I scolded myself, _she's only four years old, get a grip._

The rosebud mouth trembled. But the kid kept up the stare. We hit a pothole and we both lurched against our seatbelts. One big crystal tear popped out of the little girl's eye and trickled down her face.

A thought popped into my head_. You're not as old as I was expecting_.

It wasn't my voice, it was _hers._

I thought in return, _I can come back in a few years if you like._

_No!_ "No!" Now the tears went from trickle to river.

In the front seat daddy looked at me in the rearview mirror and said, "_No_ what?"

I shrugged. "Nothing, daddy. Bumpy road."

_You don't like me! I thought you'd like me,_ the kid wailed in my head.

_It's not that I don't like you, it's just that…. _

It's just that you get to be Ranger's real little girl, he's your daddy every single day. I get to see him once or twice a year. He loves you more.

I didn't broadcast the end part, at least I didn't think so.

The little girl quit crying and wiped her eyes on her t-shirt hem.

_You could stay?_

I thought, _Probably, like, NOT, Zoë _. She was too old to whine and ask why. But she cocked her head inquisitively.

I said out loud, "My mom wouldn't let me."

Ranger asked, "Let you do what, chica?"

"Nothing, daddy. Drive." He stared at me. I guess I sounded rude.

Now Stephanie turned and looked at us. Zoë gave her mom a big Miss America smile, covering my ass 'cos I'd made her cry.

Steph asked, "You girls okay back there? Seats warm enough?" The Cayenne had heated _back_seats.

"Toasty warm, mommy!" chirped the kid.

"Killer not barfing yet?"

The tiny dog woke up when he heard his name. It snorted big-time in Steph's direction and she went, "Eeewww,' and turned away.

Zoe and I shared a smile and our hands met as we both gave the tiny dog a thank you pat.

I thought to Zoë, _Do they know you can talk to people like this?_

_No. It's a secret. Promise not to tell?_

I shrugged.

Zoë asked, _Is that okay?_

I smiled at her and took her hand again, gave it a squeeze. I thought, _Sure, secrets are good, Z. Enjoy._

…. ….

**In the driver's seat Ranger appeared to maintain his zone.** And Stephanie was of course oblivious. Ranger frowned a little and resettled his dark glasses. Zoë had a secret, huh? And Julie—well, she did too. He sighed imperceptibly. This daddy shit was hard.

**the end**


	31. Chapter 31 Kids Get Sick

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 31 ~ Kids Get Sick - or do they?<strong>

**.**

_Ranger_

_._

**"Ranger, can you stop at CVS** and get some Pedialyte?"

''What?''

''I just got a call from Zoë's school, she's sick.''

Zoë is our four year old daughter.

"I can pick her up, babe, I'm close to her school right now."

"Um..." Steph sounded distracted. And worried.

"And I'll send one of the guys for the Pedialyte...She's throwing up?"

"I guess so. It could just be something she ate but the nurse said a lot of the kids are getting chicken pox. She hasn't had the vaccination for it yet, so..."

"Babe, I'll pick her up and call you. Maybe go right to Dr. Salem?" Jason Salem was Zoë's pediatrician, a fine if somewhat baffled-by-Zoë young man.

"Just call me."

... ... ...

**I hung up and made the turn into the circular drive** in front of Zoë's excruciatingly "Ivy" ivy covered old brick school. I double parked the Porsche and realized I had no car seat. I sighed, called Tank to bring the designated for family use only Cayenne and stowed my guns under the seat of the 911 Turbo. The security guard greeted me pleasantly, a retired cop who knew me from Rangeman. I signed in anyway, as per The Rules and went to the headmistress's office. She greeted me pleasantly but with a harried, distracted air about her. Guess she had a lot of puking kids on her hands.

She said, "I hope it's not the flu going around!"

"Probably not," I reassured. Zoë and I don't get the flu. Or chicken pox for that matter.

"Right. Kids don't get the flu, do they? They just get sick...and barf! Men get the flu...and we women just get on with it."

I kept my face blank. Like I said, I don't get the flu. And much as I love her no one would ever accuse Steph of just getting on with it. Whatever _It_ is.

The headmistress ushered me down the halls to the nursing station. I said hello and the nurse opened a door to an inner room with a small cot. Zoë was huddled under a blanket looking miserable. Pretty verging on beautiful but miserable.

I stopped myself from wondering how many germ-infested children had rested under that blanket in its lifetime. And how often it got cleaned. I said, "Hi, baby."

"Daddy," her little voice rasped.

_Poor baby. What hurts?_

"Joey Morelli gots spots on his tummy! And his mommy took him home." Joey was the cop's second or third kid, I forget. He's in second grade and my daughter has a huge crush on the child. A ladykiller just like his dad? Joe Morelli's wife was a kindergarten teacher here; otherwise his kids would be in public schools.

"Do you have spots?"

"I don't know, daddy. Look!"

She hiked up her tee-shirt and undershirt and showed me her smooth pale cafe au lait tummy. It was marred by a smattering of bright red dots. Hmmm. I leaned over to look closer and she whipped her t-shirt down covering the—evidence.

"Can I go home now?"

"Yeah. Uncle Tank is bringing the car, we'll wait out front."

I hefted her up into my arms. "You need anything before we get in the car, sweetie? Bathroom? Bucket?"

A little sad giggle. "No! I didn't barf, daddy. I just feel icky."

Hmmm. I leaned my cheek against her forehead. She felt warm because like me, her metabolism runs hot. _No fever_, I thought.

We got in the car and speaking to the windshield in that annoying but necessary manner of all parents with the kid in the backseat car seat, I said, "We're going right to Dr. Salem's, chica. He'll make you all better."

"But, daddy!"

"You have spots, gotta go.''

''Uh. Maybe they aren't real spots?''

''Looked like chicken pox to me, chica, sorry.''

''Um.''

''Yes?''

''Well, maybe they are just, um, polka dots?''

?

''Magic dots? Magic _marker_ dots?''

I pulled into the parking lot of the Seven Eleven and undid my seatbelt so I could turn and look at Zoë while we talked.

''Why are we stopping, daddy?''

I unhooked the car seat restraints and said, ''Show me the spots again.''

In the bright February sunlight the dots were even more obviously fake.

"Why did you put dots on your tummy, Zoë? Mommy and I were worried that you were really sick." I kept my voice soft and neutral.

"Because Joey had spots! He has chicken pox, he really does! You can ask his mom! And, and, and, I wanted to be just like Joey! I wanted him to like me, daddy.'' Her voice wobbled.

_Oh great, now she's gonna cry over a Morelli kid?_

I said, "Probably you don't want to go down that road, Zoë."

Hiccup. "W-w-what?"

"Boys have to like you as you are...you're okay just being Zoë. You don't need to change."

"Oh. So...no spots?"

"No. And no fibs."

"Mommy wears make up! To look pretty for you."

"Yes but she doesn't lie about it."

"I'm sorry, daddy. Are you mad at me?"

"No. I'm a little sad though."

"Why? I'm fine."

"You say that now but even the chance of chicken pox is gonna keep you home from the class skating party tomorrow afternoon. Sorry."

"But..."

"No buts, Zoë. Next time plan ahead."

_**the end of the story, series tbc**_


	32. Chapter 32 Diffcult

**Shelter from the Storm**

**[Probably you need to have read Take a Chance to understand who everyone is but it's okay if you don't, enjoy!]**

**.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 32 ~ Difficult<strong>

_Ranger_

**"Look, how often do I** ask you for a favor, bro?" My other brother Dominic-Nick-folded his arms across his chest and stared at me. People say we look alike but he has these odd blue eyes, like Gulf of Mexico aqua, Caribbean blue, and to me it makes us look totally different.

I said firmly, "_Hermano_, I'm a mercenary. I'm not a babysitter. Steph took Zoë and Britta down to Florida to enjoy the early spring weather and get some sun, and to spend some time with Julie.''

''Yeah, well, my wife is doing her reservist call-up, man."

I looked at him. Jilly is not in any reserve unit I ever heard of, and she is not on active duty. She does now and then fly some missions for Rangeman's military strike group, Omega, but as far as I knew, not for anyone else.

Nick shrugged. "Ranger, she got a phone call, she threw her rifles and combats into a duffle, and she was gone. I have to take Jake to this peewee hockey tournament in Manchester PA, we'll only be there three days. So I want to leave Izabella with you.''

''Why can't she stay home with the housekeeper or your own nanny?''

''Ranger!'' Big sigh. "For one thing, we're halfway to the hockey meet, we stopped here on the way." His look said _Idiot_. "And our nanny has the week off, she's going home to the UK for a wedding. I am not leaving a seven year old child alone with the household help, she'd feel abandoned. You're her uncle, she can stay right here.''

''It's not safe.''

''She's seven years old, Ranger. She's harmless.''

I frowned. Not that any of my men would ever harm a child, especially one of my family, but I was desperate.

"She'll be perfectly safe at Rangeman for a few days," Nick told me.

_Yes but would Rangeman be safe from her?_

_..._

**That was yesterday**, Friday. The thirteenth? Izabella Mann had smiled shyly at me and moved into Zoë's room. Ella reported later that night that the child had played with Killer the pug, eaten a small vegetarian dinner, and gone to sleep without fuss. Ella had stayed in my apartment, knitting something, til I got in around midnight.

By 10 AM on Saturday, all the Rangeman computers had a Hello Kitty graphic homepage, with Kitty dressed in Rangeman black with pink trim and toting a pink submachine gun. All the GPS maps were showing the cartoon graphics of Dora the Explorer. And Fed Ex had delivered a rush order of pink long-sleeved t-shirts that had huge black sparkly RANGEMAN writing across the chest in 4 '' letters. And they were all too small.

This morning, when I got to the comm room after my workout, I found all my men dressed in the t-shirts and grinning like fools.

"In my office," I growled at the little girl. "Tank, you too." Yes, indeed, I needed his protection, this child is a witch, I think.

Izzy sedately walked behind me to my office. She climbed up on a client chair and folded her hands in her lap. If she felt any trepidation about being alone in a room with two large scary men she doesn't know very well, she showed no sign.

I stared at her. I've never spent much time with my brother's kids. Jake, aged 5, is a loud little terror, a crazy ball of ADHD energy. Izzy at seven is supposedly a perfect little lady.

Looks can be deceiving, as I know well.

Where her mother Jilly looks like an exotic warrior princess, all focused energy and wild gold hair and golden cat eyes, my niece looks like a fairytale ice princess - her waist-length hair is spun silver gilt, her eyes are huge and either cloudy sky grey or delicate, flower-like violet blue, depending on the light, or her mood, or her intentions, who knows. Her skin is pale, creamy, cafe au lait, her features fine and perfect, her arms and legs slender, attenuated. She looks like no Manoso child I've ever seen but judging from my business's computer system's current state she has her uncle Anthony's outlaw hacker ways.

Her eyes met mine for a second, perhaps she caught the last words? Her eyes almost smiled, then she resumed her perusal of my plain grey carpet.

I said, ''All my men are wearing pink shirts this morning.''

She nodded."They look nice."

''You like pink?''

Shrug.

She herself was dressed in current NYC children's high fashion style of ugly mole grey. Tattered layers. Fingerless gloves. Skirts and leggings and ankle socks; sweater with a hood, and thumb holes. All grey-brown-mole. Like they're all a bunch of homeless Quakers. Possibly cashmere, some maybe velvet, and because I know now about little girl's clothes, extremely expensive - rags.

"_Jefe?_ You wished to see me?'' Hector tapped on the open door and leaned in, speaking Spanish. ''I am sorry I have not yet fixed whatever went wrong with...".

I interrupted. "Yes. Come in." I said to Izzy, "This is Hector, my IT man." Hector was wearing one of the pink Rangeman shirts and I found myself grinding my teeth.

_"Buenos dias,_ Hector," Izzy said politely.

Hector eyed her warily.

"_Buenos dias, senorita."_

_"Mi nombre es Izzy."_

_"Encantado, chica. Mi camisa es muy bonito."_

She smiled at him. _"_ _Adoro camisas de color rosa."_

Her Spanish was, of course, flawless, with a faint Cuban accent.

I said in English, "Tell him how to fix the computer graphics."

''Why?'' The child's feet dangled above the floor; she was quite tiny, and she gently swung her feet back and forth, back and forth. Her shoes were the only bit of color on her, except for her blue eyes. They were some sort of slipper, like a ballet dancer's, with large red silk pompoms on the toes.

I said, ''Because.''

''We can make a deal,'' she whispered.

''No deals.''

''No fix.''

"Tell me.''

"Let me drive your Porsche."

Tank stifled a hysterical burst of laughter. I frowned. "No."

She tapped a tiny pink tipped finger to her rosebud mouth and considered. ''Maybe...if you teach me to shoot.''

''That's impossible. Difficult.''

''But not impossible,'' she told me.

''Your hands are too small.''

''Your website is too pink.''

''Fix the computers and we'll see."

My phone buzzed and I picked it up, holding up a _wait one moment_ finger towards Izzy and Hector. On the line was Mitch, down at the main desk. He said, ''Ranger, there's music now when I put people on hold...?"

I eyed Izzy and mumbled _shit._"How bad is it?"

''Listen: ''

_''It's a world of laughter  
>A world of tears<br>It's a world of hopes  
>And a world of fears<br>It's a small world after all  
>It's a small world after all<br>It's a small world after all  
>It's a small, small world <em>

_There is just one moon  
>And one golden sun<br>And a smile means  
>Friendship to every one...<em>

_It's a small world after all...''_

_**''Shit!''**_ I hung up a little briskly. "And you _will _fix the phones!"

"Fine!"

"Get busy."

She left with Hector and I buried my face in my hands for a second. Tank clapped my shoulder, not very gently.

He said, ''I'm on it, boss, I'll get a derringer from Sunny at the gun shop, or something like that. I'm ready for this. ''

I shook my head. "I'm not."

"See you in a few, boss." Tank headed out the door.

"And tell the men that I'll beat the crap out of anyone I see in a fucking pink t-shirt!'' I yelled at his retreating pink-clad back.

His bald head stuck back around the door jamb. Tank said, ''Not to worry, boss...she sold them all right off our backs.''

''Sold them?''

''eBay, Carlos, eBay. I hope you have a good supply of packing tape in the mail room.''

_I'm doomed._

**the end. series tbc**

I hope you enjoyed meeting Zoë's cousin Izabella! Her name is spelled with a 'z' to honor Nick's adopted mother Elizabeth, who is Ranger's mom, the doctor.

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><p>Reviews are very wonderful, thank you for taking a moment to write!<p> 


	33. Chapter 33 Career Day

a/n** Thanks to everyone **who has come to read more of my stories on my blog! http[slash slash]:mercenaryranger[dot]blogspot[dot]com

I posted** a new story **there earlier, pls come and read! enjoy...

And thanks to everyone who read /bookmarked/ reviewed Mercenaries R Us.

Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.

* * *

><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 33 ~ Career Day<strong>

**My daughter Zoë trooped into my Rangeman** office with what appeared to be an entourage. _The child can definitely make an entrance_, I thought as I scooped up the energetic little pink imp who was shrieking, "Daddydaddydaddydaddy!" like she hadn't seen me in months, as if we hadn't had breakfast together just a few hours ago.

"Hey baby, shush, okay?" I kissed her bright pink cheek and looked over her dark head at the rest of the group. I nodded.

"Morelli."

"Ranger."

Tank had called me with a heads up a couple minutes earlier. I guess whoever is on the door downstairs was too scared to call me directly and tell me that Joe Morelli had arrived with his son Joseph Junior and that they had run into Zoë and Ella in the lobby, and the entire group wanted to see me. Even I am not great at saying no to little kids so here they all were. I set Zoë down and shook Joe's hand, then the little boy's. He looked me in the eye—_hey, lotta adult men can't do that!—_ and said, "Hello, Mr. Manoso, sir." Nice Burg manners.

His big brown eyes tracked from my face to my shoulder holster, a crossdraw rig with a black Glock 9mm under each arm. Morelli's wife probably insisted he keep his service gun out of sight of the kids and truth is, I kept my weapons securely locked up at home also. But just now they had invaded my working space and I was, as usual, armed and dangerous. The child finished inspecting my black Rangeman SWAT fatigues and met my eyes again.

I said, "You can call me Ranger, Joey."

"Mr. Ranger?"

"No, just Ranger, it's a—nickname, like when your dad calls you Joey or Zoë calls you JJ."

The kid looked up at his dad for permission. Morelli smirked and said, "Maybe _Uncle Ranger_?"

"Uh—let's try _Uncle Carlos_," I said.

I thought I managed to hide my eye roll at _Uncle Ranger_ but Morelli grinned and said, "You're gettin' good at that."

I said, "What can I do for you today, Morelli?"

Ella, sensing that my time was limited as was my patience, intervened and said, "Zoë, Joey—um, JJ—I just made cookies! Why don't we have some with a glass of milk while your dads talk?"

Morelli said, "Actually it is Joey who needs to speak to Ranger."

I said to Ella, "Take a few minutes, Ella. I'll send the kids up when we're done." My eye caught Zoë's trembling lip—like her mom, she hates to miss out on cookies!—and I added, "The cookies can wait, chica. Your friend and I have business. Let's sit down."

She smiled and nodded and we all sat down on my big leather sofas. Silence.

"So—Joey…?" I asked.

Zoë jumped up and said, "Daddy Daddy! JJ's is in the first grade! And his class is having Career Day and he wants you to talk to the class because his daddy will be out of town."

I looked at Morelli who was staring at Zoë. Zoë just turned four but she is a trifle precocious and she is a very good talker. Morelli isn't that familiar with Zoë because we really don't socialize much. Surprisingly it is not me or Stephanie or Morelli who prefers a good distance socially; it is Joe's wife Elisa. I don't think she is comfortable with our income disparities and she definitely doesn't like Joe to spend a lot of time with Steph. It's kinda sad, because Stephanie and Joe became good friends finally, when Steph and I got together. And besides Elisa is a perfect Burg wife and a good mother, not to mention Morelli is crazy about her.

Morelli was still watching Zoë who was still talking and who had also picked up my iPhone off the coffee table and was dialing up a game or placing a bet on tonight's hockey game or phoning the White House or something. Like me, she is good at multitasking.

I said, "Zoë, let's let Joey—um, JJ—tell us what he has in mind."

The little boy said, "What she said."

"Go on."

He blushed a little and said, "My dad can't come to Career Day and my mom said I could ask someone else that I admire. So I am asking you."

"Maybe you should ask your mom, JJ. Being a great mom is an important career too. And she is a teacher, too"

JJ nodded. "I did! I asked her! But she said she has to work and then be at home with Nikki and the twins and has no time."

His lip trembled.

Morelli said, "I'm going to be on assignment, Ranger. I can't get away."

I nodded. I'm sure he thought the same thing I was thinking—that his kid's special day should be more important; but tell that to a CO or a client or the Chief of Police and your career goes down the tube. Morelli was still a detective, homicide usually, and on the streets. I had the idea he wasn't ready for a promotion and the desk job that would go with it. He was instead often utilized by TPD to liaise with the DEA and the FBI and so on and if he was involved in a big operation he couldn't blow it off no matter how important his son's school program should be.

I said, "How did you know about me, Joey?"

"I saw you on TV with the President!"

_Oh yeah. On TV with a President. Again_. "And the TV man said you were very important in the war on terror. The President said you were a _hero!_ "

_Geez_. "How old are you again, Joey? Six?"

The boy nodded. I looked at Morelli who shrugged. Six years old seemed way too young to know about the so-called war on terror.

"I run a security company, JJ. I guard people and businesses and homes. I keep people safe. That's my job. Is that interesting enough?"

"You aren't a soldier?"

Silence. God, I hate lying to kids.

"You want me to tell your class about being a soldier?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh Daddy you can wear your fancy green ARMY outfit and all your army jewelry and bows and stuff!" I hoped she meant my service medals and _I Was There_ ribbons.

"And your beret!" Shit, I'd have to get my hair cut short again.

" Wow! That would be awesome, Mr. Manoso. I mean Uncle Carlos."

"Oh Daddy, you'll look sooooo beautiful!"

Morelli laughed. I scowled.

Zoë poked me. "No frowning, Daddy! Or you'll need Botox! Say yes, say yes."

"Sure, JJ. I'll be happy to tell you and your class all about the ARMY. It is actually an excellent career."

"And you'll wear your uniform?"

"Absolutely."

"you mean it?

"Sure."

The kid beamed a wide, happy Morelli smile and Zoë looked smitten. I handed him a business card and said, "Just have your teacher call me with the date and time and I'll be there. I promise."

"Awesome. Thank you!"

"You're very welcome, JJ. Now—, cookies? Zoë, please take JJ to find Tank or Uncle Lester and they'll get Ella for you."

"Where's Mommy?"

"Chasing a skip with Auntie Lula, baby."

"Oh okay, Daddy." Zoë grabbed JJ's hand and dragged him out of the room.

Morelli stood up and said, "Thanks, Ranger. I owe you."

"No problem. I'm happy to do it. He seems like a great kid, Joe."

"Yeah, Zoë is adorable too. She's really beautiful, isn't she? Like a little perfect doll….She looks exactly like you—oh. Um. Sorry….But oh man, she talks like she's fifteen!"

"Please don't mention her being fifteen. Seeing Julie go to high school and start dating is hard enough."

Morelli nodded. He wasn't gonna touch that with a ten foot pole; no guy knew better than Joe Morelli what teenage boys can get up to. After a brief silence Morelli said, "So—what'll you tell the kiddies? At Career Day."

"I'll tell them about the ARMY. I know all about the army, man."

"I guess you do—but you'll keep it generic, right? No details?

"What did you think? What am I gonna say? _Kids, last week I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork_? I don't think so."

Joe laughed. "I guess not." Then, "You didn't really, did you?"

"Not with a fork…."

Morelli was silent. _See why I don't talk about the Job—it's a real conversation ender, lemme tell you._

"And not Paraguay," I added.

I offered my hand and we shook again.

Morelli was almost to the door when I added, "Good luck on the op with DEA."

He turned. "You knew about that?"

"Joe. Of course I knew…. Rangeman set it up, we did all the prelim intell."

He stared , then just said. "Thanks again, Ranger."

"_De nada_, Joe."

"Give my love, I mean my best, to Stephanie."

"And mine to Elisa."

He nodded and was gone.

I sat down at my desk and put my head in my hands. _Shit! Elementary school Career Day! At a __school—I bet they won't let me bring my weapons in either…._

**the end...**and_ of course Ms Webster, their teacher, and all the little kids loved him….._

_series tbc_


	34. Chapter 34 Kiss Me I'm Irish

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 34 ~ Kiss Me, I'm Irish<strong>

**.**

_Ranger_

"**Daddydaddydaddy! It is almost time** for Killer's trip to the beauty parlor!''

The show quality pug needs monthly grooming. I looked up from my computer—a replacement issued after my MacBook was destroyed during last week's disastrous visit by the lethal Izzy brat. I saved the security plans for my new client onto a thumb drive, and looked over at my four year old daughter Zoë. "Okay."

The long suffering tiny dog was clasped in Zoë skinny little arms. His belly bulged and his little feet dragged. The dog was dressed in a glittery green harness and wearing a hand knit hat that had green things instead of ears. He looked sadder than usual.

Zoë set him on the rug and I now could see he was also wearing a tiny t-shirt that said _Kiss Me I'm Irish._ Killer scrabbled a bit, found his balance, and ran over, hid under the desk. I stuck my hand down to pet him and he moaned. "What's up, dawg?" I said. He sneezed. Eeew, on my hand.

''Mommy said can you bring us because last time she had Killer in the car, he had a hissy fit! And then she ran into a stop sign and crashed! And she needed four stitches in her chin. And she got a hunnerrt dollar ticket from Officer Nose Pick!"

_Not to mention the 3 grand repair bill to her current Cayenne._

"Gaspick, chica, the man's name is Gaspick."

"Whatever."

''As long as you were all okay, baby."

She nodded. "Well, except for the stitches..."

''So when are we going?''

''Oh daddy we have a spa date for the doggy salon at 7AM on Monday, before I go to school. And then you can pick Killer up, he can spend the day with you!''

_Or, not._

"We'll see."

"But daddy! Nevermind that! Here is what I want to show you! See Killer's ever so pretty Irish hat?"

''Uh huh."

''It has shamrocks!''

''That's what the green things are?''

''Yes! And I have this book, lookit!''

She climbed onto my lap and thrust a small picture book into my hands. I looked. Then I read, "_Shamrock, The Irish French Poodle_...?''

''Yes, look!''

I opened the book.

''See? Shamrock the doggy in the story is GREEN! He lives in Dublin and he falls in a keg of green beer on St-Paddy's Day! And he is lost, and and and GREEN! and so he follows the parade and the bagpipers to this pub and the men there give him Guinness, what is Guinness? Nevermind I will google it...and so they name him Shamrock, and the man who owns the pub is sort of scary...He says to Shamrock: _Behold... and despair... your new master!—_but the scary man is actually very nice he is just teasing Shamrock and then he gives Shamrock more Guinness. Who yip-yips! and thinks in his doggy head, _Oooh, la, la! C'est la vie._ That is French. It means _esta la vida_, did you know that?"

"Mmmm." I turn the pages.

''Then this skinny rich mean lady comes to claim poor little Shamrock. She is very snotty and she says _Your reward!_" Zoë pointed at the page. ''Go on, read it!"

I read: '' 'The publican looked angry. He said, _I do not want your gold._ The rich lady said, _Then what?_ The man who rescued poor Shamrock made a very scary face and whispered, _I want your head!_ And the mean lady who didn't take good care of Shamrock was afraid and she ran away. Shamrock stayed at the pub...' "

Zoë interrupted, " '...and he lived happily ever after!' At the pub!"

_Who writes this stuff for kids? And who the hell publishes it?_

"Hmmm."

"So—isn't Shamrock really pretty when he is green?"

''Uh...''

''So I was thinking Killer would ever so much like to be green.''

''What! No.''

''I saw bunnies that were pink and blue, daddy. So Killer could be green."

''Where were the bunnies?''

''At the petting zoo we saw them on our school trip last week! And the baby chicks were yellow!"

''Zoë, I believe chicks are always yellow.''

"That is not the point, daddy."

''And the point is?"

''Killer must be green for St-Paddy's Day."

"Why?''

"Because we are Irish!''

I stared at her. So far as I know there is not one drop of Irish blood in me, in her, or in the dog. "We are not Irish, baby."

''Uncle Lester says on St-Paddy's Day everyone is Irish.''

''Well, I suppose...''

''So...green Killer?''

''No.''

"No?"

"No."

the end

* * *

><p>pls be sure to see Killer's hat! LOL, really.<p>

**St Paddy's Day/ Kiss Me I'm Irish: Killer the Pug's shamrock hats: **

real links in my profile.

www[dot]etsy[dot]com/listing/67846007/dog-hat-irish-with-four-leaf-clovers

www[dot]etsy[dot]com/listing/65240287/dog-hat-irish-pride-hat

and if you haven't been to my blog yet, pls come visit and read my very different Paddy's Day story, and others, over there

http[slash slash]:mercenaryranger[dot]blogspot[dot]com


	35. Chapter 35 Raspberry Shower Gel

**a/n There is a new story on my blog tonight, called "Panama"...go, read it! enjoy**

**http: slash slash mercenaryranger . dot . blogspot . com [close the spaces and paste]**

* * *

><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**.**

**a/n: **Readers requested Ranger on a mission—or should I say Ranger begged me to get him out of Trenton for a few days? The "Shelter" aspect of his life was feeling a little smothering, possibly his legendary patience was wearing a bit thin? So, here he is...on the job...in the storm...

enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 35 ~ Raspberry Shower Gel<strong>

**.**

_Ranger_

**One of those days, one of those jobs**. Maybe Tank is right, we're getting too old for this stuff?

I'm in...well, it doesn't matter where we are this morning, all that matters is the job.

(Yes, okay, _and_ the money. And the—oh thank you, god, the peace and quiet. No pink t-shirts, no pugs in awful hats, no exploding cars...unless I blow them up myself. Yes, life is good, Tank is wrong...very wrong.)

My name is Carlos Manoso and—what? Oh just go with it, what the fuck does a name matter?

We have the target in our sights. Unfortunately the man, the target, is with a child, so I am backing off. I am working—_not_ happily—with another shooter, a guy lent to me under duress—my duress, not his, this idiot was freakin' thrilled—from Spec Ops.

Now the operative tells me, ''I have a clean shot. Can I kill him? May I kill him? Just say the word, sir."

I say _no._

The man huffs a little. Annoyed. "Why not?''

I don't blow up churches, I don't kill parents in front of their kids. I tell the shooter, "Our—my—credibility isn't dead yet.'' I don't feel a need to explain. Why should I?

''Mine is,'' says the shooter. With an evilly delighted grin, he again takes aim.

I suppose it's a good thing the guy has come from the military. His finger tightens on the trigger and I use my officer's voice to crack out, _"Stand down, soldier. Now."_

The man sighs and lowers his rifle.

He wants to punch me, but he knows that somewhere under all my nondescript black clothing there's a figurative set of US Army colonel's insignia; he is too well trained to punch out an officer.

I say, "We can do this another day, dismissed.''

The soldier packs up his frustration and silently fades away but I continue to lie on the hot rooftop watching the man and the boy.

Their dark heads are together. The boy has pulled a sheet of paper, like a handwritten letter, or his schoolwork? from his back pack. They read it solemnly, the man points to something. The child nods. The man checks his pockets, offers a gold Mont Blanc rollerball pen. No cheap freebie Bics with _Plum Bail Bonds_ and Vinnie's phone number for this man. I can see the sleek gleam of the gold from here. The boy inscribes something, perhaps an additional word, a correction, or just an apostrophe he missed. Then the man pats the boy's shoulder. His pantomime motions say, _Well done, my son._

The boy beams and carefully puts his papers away, returns the expensive gold pen. He is smiling, so proud.

I was a kid like that once, yeah_, really_. Remember I told Stephanie once about watching _Leave it to Beaver_? On TV? _As if._ That was so before my time, maybe before my parents' time, not that either of them ever seemed to watch much TV. But it's a classic gag, the Beav, and Eddie and the big brother, the Stepford parents. Creepy...

You don't know this about me, but—me? I was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fan—man, I loved those guys. I dreamed of becoming a ninja—hey, who knew...? Maybe it was, what do you call it, foreshadowing? Too bad my Yankee pitcher fantasies weren't the ones that came true.

I must have been, oh, maybe nine or ten. I so wanted a bottle of raspberry Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shower gel, who cared if it smelled like girly pink shampoo? It came in a green plastic bottle, shaped like one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Raspberry was Leo, blueberry was Raphael, banana was Michelangelo, and so on. I knew if I had that, oh man, I'd be so cool. My fantasy was to live in an old movie theater, instead of a firehouse like the boys—the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I mean, they lived in an old firehouse and only ate pizza. But I wanted to live in the old movie theater in town, it was built in the 1920s, had all kinds of balconies and old velvet curtains, and old flickering candle things on cracked stucco walls. I didn't care that the theater was really just old and uncared for, to me it was the place of dreams. Sort of _Phantom of the Opera_ meets Raphael, Mikey, Leo and, hmm—Sayonara? No. Titian? No, then they'd have nicknamed him Tits. You'd think I'd remember...

Probably some assassin just like me watched me and my dad back then. After the Sunday matinee we'd go across the street to the Baskin and Robbins, sit on their little pink chairs and have an ice-cream cone, while shooing off the seagulls. I was blissfully unaware though. And no, the bad guys never got him. Exactly. Not then, anyway.

But here and now, this quiet morning: a few minutes later a woman arrived, and after a bit of conversation, she took the child's hand, and they waved goodbye to my target. I watched the mother and child walk away though the pigeon-clogged ancient city plaza, and then they were gone. The man, the father, motioned the server over, probably ordered more coffee or the check. He lit a cigarette, glanced idly around the cafe. Maybe he felt my scrutiny?

The Delta guy left too soon. Impatience hampers the procurement of positive results on a mission.

I chambered the single round. And aimed...

...

**epilog:** Oh yeah. _Donatello._ Donnie. The fourth Ninja.

* * *

><p><strong>the end, series tbc<strong>

**thank you for reviewing! Only takes a second, means so much! love sunny**

* * *

><p>an: If someone is not familiar with TMNTs here's the original theme song. You can also search on You Tube for scenes and theme songs.

And the green bottles of what we then called bubble bath, were, I swear, really made. The heads screwed off, lol.

**Original Theme song**

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles  
>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles<br>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles  
>Heroes in a half-shell<br>Turtle power!

They're the world's most fearsome fighting team (We're really hip!)  
>They're heroes in a half-shell and they're green (Hey - get a grip!)<br>When the evil Shredder attacks  
>These Turtle boys don't cut him no slack!<p>

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles  
>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles<p>

Splinter taught them to be ninja teens (He's a radical rat!)  
>Leonardo leads, Donatello does machines (That's a fact, Jack!)<br>Raphael is cool but crude (Gimme a break!)  
>Michelangelo is a party dude (Party!)<p>

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles  
>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles<br>Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles  
>Heroes in a half shell<br>Turtle power!


	36. Chapter 36 Black Jellybeans

**Shelter from the Storm **

a/n Wishing everyone happy spring holidays! And thanks for reviewing!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-six ~ Black Jellybeans<strong>

**.**

_Ranger_

**I step into my aunt Olivia's snow white kitchen** and look around. Anthony has my back and he just barely doesn't bump into me, though I can feel him breathing on my neck. He shoves me aside and yells, "Mom!"

"In here..."

We walk into the dining room (need I tell you, also very white?). The big farmhouse table, scrubbed bleached pine-old, valuable, is covered with two weeks' worth of newspapers and there are blue tarps taped to the ivory heart-pine floor. The table has bowls of white eggs and many little pots of egg dye that smell of vinegar. The scent mixes with the egg-y sulfur smell and is much less appealing than my aunt's usual household aura of lemon and salt air and herbs.

At the table are my daughter Julie and Jilly's two blond cherubs, all wearing big old men's shirts just like we used to wear for Olivia's art projects, back in the day. All are demurely busy, engrossed in their project. I eye Jilly's daughter Izzy with caution but she simply smiles calmly at me and returns to her task.

... ... ...

**Last week I got a call** from Olivia...

"Hi, Ranger!'' So cheery on this stormy April day.

Olivia _never_ calls me at work, probably wouldn't even if there was a major life catastrophe, but the cheerful tone precluded that. So... "Hey. What's up," I said warily.

''I understand Julie is coming for Easter?''

''Yeah, spring break, Jersey style," I answered.

''So, um, I know how busy you and Stephanie are, and I was thinking you could bring Julie and Zoë out to stay with me for Easter weekend? We'll dye eggs and have the Easter Bunny come, all that stuff."

"Eggs?"

"You must remember, Ranger. We always dyed Easter eggs on Good Friday, you always wanted to dye yours black! And then your dad would hide them for an Easter Egg hunt..."

I didn't want to go there, my own mother was always AWOL (MD, on call, but still...) and Olivia did her best to merge our families and make us normal, so holidays were often all of us kids, her and her husband and my dad, her lover who was also her husband's business partner and best friend. As a kid I had fun and asked no questions; as an adult I wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole.

My silence must have communicated something to her and her voice sounded small and sad, suddenly. "I thought it would be so fun... Jilly will be here with her kids too, and you and Stephanie could come on Sunday for Easter dinner. I was going to make ham."

I felt like a real shit because I'd spoiled her enthusiasm. I also knew Steph would be thrilled, no egg dying mess in our house, no ghastly Plum Easter dinner at 1pm. No big involved lie to get out of Easter Mass...

"I just wanted the kids to have the fun of an old-fashioned Easter, but that's okay..."

"No! I mean yes, it's a great idea. Thank you, Olivia, the girls will love it. I'll bring them out on...?"

"Wednesday or Thursday?"

"Sure. Ah, can you make eggplant parm instead of ham?"

Now her voice was smiling. "I'll make both, Ranger, whatever you all want."

"Thank you, Livvy."

"Um, can I take the girls to the children's church service at St Mary's? It's short and beautiful and there's a petting zoo...with lambs!"

"Yes, of course." Steph and I aren't practicing anythings though we were both raised Catholic. Julie however is growing up in a staunchly Catholic household and she'd expect —and be expected —to attend church on Easter. I had planned to send her with Helen Plum but this was better.

I said, "I'll have Ella choose Easter dresses for them, shoes, whatever..."

"No! I mean, do you think I could do that?"

"Knock yourself out."

"They won't insist on wearing black, will they?''

"I'll have a word with them," I promised.

Okay, sounds fun, right? A good plan? Surrogate grandmother will have all her little kids and the pleasure of recreating Easter and our own childhoods. The kids would be in a gorgeous huge childproof (though white) house with other kids and dogs —at the beach! They'd have fun and do normal kid stuff, while giving great joy to someone I love a lot. As long as Izzy didn't blow something up. I mentally crossed my fingers.

"Thank you, Ranger!'' Olivia said fervently.

''No, _tia_, thank you.''

... ... ...

**So it's Good Friday**, I am on a job with Anthony because Tank has taken Lula off to Belize for the week. When I questioned his plan he told me, "Lu never got to go to spring break..."

I nodded but had to ask, "And you have fond memories of Central America?"

"Well no. But she doesn't know that and the resort is awesome.''

''I hope the toilets flush now. In fact, I hope they have toilets."

''Boss, geez. Four Seasons?''

I nodded again. ''Have fun.''

The current job involves a DEA sting in Manhattan, a Rangeman contract. There is a new designer drug coming out of this club in the Meat Packing District. The club is accessed through a stinking alley, the only signage a neon outline of a vintage Playboy Bunny logo. The club's name is RABBIT'S but the neon is defective. The letter T fizzles on and off in the darkness of another rainy day, so the place is sometimes mistaken for a kosher butcher shop, named Rabbi's.

Anthony and I are in a surveillance van, parked in the alley with a view of the street and the club entrance. We're in place early and nothing is happening, no people at all, not even the stray shopper looking for bargain meats. Not only is it Good Friday, it is the second day of Passover. NYC is as quiet as it gets.

In the midst of all this tedium my cell rings. I listen then hang up. I tell Anthony, "We have to go."

He jerks awake and asks, "What?"

"Call Manny and Vince, tell them to take over."

"What? Why?"

I explain—the call was from my daughter's Russian expat bodyguard, the man she calls Monster—and as soon as the guys arrive we grab a cab to go the few blocks to Anthony's loft where we switch over to his truck. One or two stops in Manhattan, then we are driving like maniacs out to Long Island. I'm behind the wheel. I cut off some bridge-and-tunnel creep in a Toyota Camry, he lays on the horn and yells.

Anthony kicks back and relaxes, says, "Road rage. It's so—useless. Whoa! Watch the road, though, bro..." A tense hour later we arrive at Olivia Stewart's big white beach house. As usual there is no visible security around the house, though presumably there are guards for both Olivia herself and Jilly's children. Anthony says nothing, so I allow myself to believe their bodyguards are discreetly invisible, not nonexistent

When we get out of the truck, Julie's man Georgie —Jorge—materializes from the budding hydrangeas, gives me a nod and fades away.

We enter the house via the kitchen. In the dining room we can see the children at the table along with Arkady Petrovich aka Monster and Dragan Dardasqu' I mean Dave Smith, who are Zoë's bodyguards. Arkady stands at parade rest, and looks relieved when we appear. Dave is seated by Julie and busily dipping an egg in blue dye. He looks fascinated and happy, and about twelve years old. Poor Dave's life didn't lend itself to much fun when he was a kid in a Romanian orphanage, I am guessing. He looks up at me and smiles.

In the foreground Olivia is faced off with my younger daughter Zoë. Olivia is grabbing her hair and glaring, Zoë is standing hands on hips, glaring back.

Olivia tries, ''Look, Zoë, I have three shades of pink dye!''

"No."

"And pink sparkles!

"No."

"Purple?"

"No!"

Julie turns her head and says, "Look at this neat lime green!"

Dave holds up an old spoon, balancing his bright peacock blue creation. He says something in Romanian, "Blah blah blah _blue_," —Count Dracula Does Easter—and Zoë looks at him and says, "No."

Olivia says, "The Easter Bunny will like the bright colors!"

"No !"

"And if he's happy with his eggs he'll bring you lots of chocolate eggs and jellybeans."

Zoë thinks about that. "What kind of jellybeans?"

"Bright colorful sweet yummy jellybeans."

"Noooooo." Tears threaten. Then she realizes I have arrived and yells, "Daddydaddydaddy!"

I pick her up and hug her, greet the other kids, and hand a bag with Cyrillic lettering to Olivia. Julie runs over to me and I hug her too, as if I wasn't here just yesterday.

"You got some...?" Olivia pulls four tiny envelopes like seed packets out of the bag. The writing is in Ukrainian but someone has penciled in English the word "black".

"The shop in NoHo, Surma, on East 7th Street had it, just like Arkady said." I almost smile. "The old Ukrainian ladies loved my Russian accent."

"Ah." Olivia smiles at Zoë and tells her, "Come on, sweetie, help me here."

Zoë cocks her head in question. Olivia tells her, "One dozen black Easer eggs, coming up!"

"Yay!"

I set Zoë down and she hugs my legs then turns to run after Olivia. I grab the back of the giant man's shirt she is wearing as an apron. "Zoë, a word, please."

Something in my voice makes her stop dead and she turns to stare solemnly up at me. I squat down so that we are eye to eye. I say, "I didn't bring the black egg dye just for you, Zoë."

?

"I brought it for Olivia, it made her happy. She wants to make this Easter perfect for you."

"But, daddy!''

''No buts, Zoë. Next time someone wants you to make pink eggs you make pink eggs. Got it?''

Her chin trembles and eyes fill with tears. I harden my heart and stay stern. I repeat, "You understand, Zoë?"

''Yes, daddy." She looks into my eyes. ''Does this mean the Easter Bunny won't bring me black jelly beans after all?''

Behind her Anthony stares at me and makes a tiny gesture with the CVS bag full of black Brach's all-fruit-flavor (i.e. not icky licorice) jellybeans. I frown at them both and say, ''We'll see.''

... ... ...

**In the car Anthony** pops open the bag of jellybeans and tosses a couple in his mouth. He says nothing.

I drive in silence, then cave, "I'm raising a spoiled brat, right?''

"Child like black, bro."

"No excuses. She's spoiled..."

''Dunno, man. And you always got black Easter eggs, why shouldn't Zee?"

?

He adds, "She's really cute...and smart. And she's only, what, four?''

"But spoiled."

"You try your best, that's all a dad can do.'' I glance at him, because I can read his momentary confusion, him having grown up with two dads and all. He adds, "Probably Zoë is the kinda woman who men will always give in to, it's her destiny, it's like in her stars."

"Because she's beautiful?" I frown. Being beautiful isn't always a wonderful thing.

"No, because, like, she's Zoë..." He waves a casual hand as if that explains it all. (And maybe it does...?)

"So...?"

"So I left half the friggin' black jellybeans on the counter at my mom's, dude."

"Okay. Uh, thanks?"

"De nada. Uh, jellybean?" He offers me his bag of jelly beans. "Happy Easter?"

_**the end **_

* * *

><p>Happy Easter Passover/ whatever you celebrate! Spring?


	37. Chapter 37 Easter Bunny

_**Shelter from the Storm**_

_**.**_

a/n This takes place the following year, after last week's Easter story, and after Jane's Dilemma. Zoe is 5...I have put pictures and links for the Manoso family's weekend on my blog, come look! The link is in my profile here.

enjoy!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chapter Thirty-seven ~ Easter Bunny<strong>_

_**.**_

_Arkady Petrovich, aka Monster, Rangeman employee POV_

_**I am not the nanny!**_ **I shouted **silently after Stephanie Plum. But she grabbed her oversized purse and my colleague Jorge from Miami Rangeman and ran out of the Bemelmans Cafe at The Carlyle Hotel in NYC. The brass doors swung shut behind her and I slumped in my chair, watching the faces of my two remaining charges. Two beautiful children, primly seated under one of the storybook paintings, stoically eating croissants and drinking hot chocolate. Abandoned again, with me for their babysitter.

I knew it was a famous storybook picture because I had sat here listening to the women discuss it in overly infinite detail while they ate breakfast.

The Manoso family—including Julie, up from Miami for spring break—was in NYC for Easter weekend, a rain check trip to the city since their Christmas visit was marred by a catastrophic event somewhere, elsewhere. My name is Arkady Petrovich though I go by Andre Petrocelli these days. Doesn't matter because everyone calls me Monster. I am employed by these girls' father as a shooter and a bodyguard, not as a babysitter. And despite the holiday, yes, I am working. If I _was_ inclined to celebrate Easter, _my_ Easter—Russian Easter—is not until mid-April. And as a former agent of the KGB, I do not celebrate any holidays at all. That was strictly forbidden and I have never gotten out of the habit. Til now.

For the long weekend, we were staying at the Four Seasons (along with all the sheiks and their very armed guards. I do not know why Ranger is so fond of the place...), and while Ranger had an important meeting with who know who, the women had decided to breakfast at the Carlyle so that they could yammer on about nuns and madeleines. Halfway through the croissants Stephanie got a call about a "skip", grabbed the young man who was Miss Julie's bodyguard, bestowed kisses all around and made a fast getaway, calling over her shoulder as she went, "Take the kids to the park or something, Arkady. Ranger and I will meet you all at the Plaza's Palm Court at noon, for Easter brunch. Have fun!" Finger wave and she was gone.

Zoë Manoso, aged five, said softly, "I wanted to see the Easter Bunny!"

Her mouth wobbled and her huge brown pansy eyes filled with tears. Her big sister Julie threw her napkin on the table and said, "You will, Zoë! I promise!" To me she added, "C'mon. Pay the check and let's get out of here. I want to go to Fifth Avenue to see the parade!"

"Pay?"

"Oh fer pete's sake!" She pulled a black Am Ex card out of her little purse and waved it at the server. Julie Manoso is twelve going on twenty-five. Or forty.

... ... ...

**"I expected a parade**," she said a few minutes later."Like St. Patrick's Day or Macy's Thanksgiving Parade."

From my years in America as a KGB hitman and agent, I knew NYC well and I knew the so-called parade was just a promenade of NYC weirdos and tourists, dressed up in tacky Easter costumes.

I shrugged. Zoë, who was clutching my hand, watched wide-eyed as a 6' 6'' cross-dressed "lady" went by in a straw sombrero covered with plush bunnies and plastic eggs and a spandex mini skirt that barely covered his/her—um—assets.

Zoë started singing: _"__**In **__your __**Eeee**__astah Bonn-ET! Wi'th__**all**__ the drills Up On __**it!**__ You'll __**be**__ the finest lady..."_

Julie, close to my right shoulder cringed, while Zoë stopped mid-chorus and said, "That lady needs to shave her legs, Monster!"

The well-dressed he/she glared. I flashed my gun and he-?—turned away quickly.

"I should never have taught her that song," moaned Julie.

_"On dah AVE N You! We'll make a drawer! Fish Avenue! And I am suuuure...!"_

I said, "Come, ladies! A few blocks up, it is Central Park, very pretty, safe in daytime. We will go to children zoo, yes?"

"It looks like rain," said Julie. "It rained earlier when daddy and I went running. The park will be muddy."

"Well..." I waffled, knowing she was right, but what's a man to do?

"No! I want to go, I want the zoo!" yelled Zoë.

"Geez, okay, okay." To me, Julie whispered, "Just do NOT let her see the carriage horses, she'll cry and want daddy to buy them and save them!"

"Good thinking, Miss Julie," I said approvingly. We cut across to the east side of Fifth, then went towards the park entrance across from The Pierre, safely avoiding the horses pitfall and other droppings. The park was pleasant despite the earlier dampness: chartreuse grass, looked fake, spring flowers in bloom, trees with pink leaves, who knew?—and filled with romantic couples and happy families and the ever-present tourists in bad shorts and huge sneakers.

My charges sedately licked the lemon Italian ices I bought them and surveyed the scene with wide brown eyes. We drew attention, much to my dismay. For one thing, in a springtime world of brightly dressed humanity, the two children were dressed in (I assume) expensive children's couture silk dresses that were—black. Black silk, smocked and ruffled with tiny pink rosebuds on the bodice in Zoë's case; short, tight and tailored with a tiny bolero for Julie—but stark Rangeman black. Julie had chosen the outfits this morning and she likes black.

And for another thing, the girls, with their long shiny black hair, porcelain cafe au lait skin and delicate features, were exquisitely beautiful—and graceful, vivacious, charmingly well-mannered. They had the aura of ancient Spanish princesses, like the Infantas in the paintings by Velasquez.(I know about paintings from my KGB days, just in case we ran across any old Nazi loot to save for Mother Russia. They gave us a class at the Kremlin, go figure.) And there they were with ugly old armed and dangerous me. People tend to stare.

The park pathway heading north meandered around a bit, became more isolated, dare I say bucolic? Amazingly so, because if I glanced to my right the tall apartment buildings and hotels on Fifth Avenue loomed above the cherry trees. To our left, in the distance, was a grassy swale and a pond with swans and toy sailboats. To our north, just off the path was an outcropping of the black granite stone that was the bedrock of Manhattan Island. It shone shiny, wet, and mud-splashed from the heavy spring rain that had fallen earlier, droplets now glistening in the weak spring sun.

The sudden solitude spooked me.

I unsnapped my shoulder holster, loosened my gun. Julie eyed me curiously but Zoë's attention was elsewhere. She clutched my hand and stopped dead. "Lookit! lookit!" I drew my gun. "The Easter Bunny I saw him! I saw him, he ran onto the rocks over there! Loook! _Bunneeee! Oh, Bunneee! _Wait, it's me, Zoe!"

She dropped my hand and ran towards the rocks, but I caught the back of her dress by its bow and said, "You cannot run off like that."

"Yes I can I saw him!"

"You are all dressed up, little missy. You don't want to mess up your pretty clothes, do you?"

Beside me Julie said, "Little Missy? This is real life, Monster, not a rerun of _Gone with the Wind_."

"Gone with the Wind?"

"It's movie that Steph likes, did you never notice? I think she relates to that silly woman..."

I was no longer listening, because Zoë had surged forward, the bow untied in my hand and slithered through my fingers. Zoë scrambled over the wet, muddy rocks and disappeared.

"Good one, dude." Oh my heavens the girl looked just like her father, the cold eyes and stern face and I remembered that this little girl, well not sooo little anymore though I'd never _ever_ mention that to her father—I recalled she had killed a man, shot him point blank with the boss's Glock.

Now she gave me the evil eye and stormed off up the rocks after her little sister. When I clambered over I could not see the girls but I could hear them calling, "Bunnnneee!" and "Yo! Z.!" I fell down the far side of the crevasse (seemed like, why the eff was this here anyway?)—and got up, looked for my gun.

"Here. You dropped it. Geez." Julie popped up next to me and handed me my weapon, her face like the boss's when Stephanie does something dumb. Then we both heard, "Oooh. Look."

We climbed over more rocks and found Zoë, standing hands on hips staring at the "bunny" that was sitting on yet another boulder, dead rat at its side, cleaning its...self. The animal put its foot down and looked at us. I drew my weapon again."Holy shi—heck! It is a mountain lion! A, a, a cougar, a bobcat!" I sputtered. "A puma, do you have pumas here in the US?" I was babbling.

"Only if they're shoes," said Julie sarcastically.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty!" Zoë was talking to the thing.

"No! Do not touch it!" I yelled. Zoë glanced at me and frowned. She looked just like her father too—only prettier, same as her big sister. I said, "You are all dressed up! That _thing_ is wet and dirty! It is dangerous."

_"Not_ dangerous!" The foot in the shiny black patent leather mary jane, brand new from _Botticellini_ yesterday, set the boss back two hundred bucks, stomped in the mud. Splat.

"Don't you want to be Little Miss Perfect, all nice and clean when your daddy meets you at the Palm place? You know he wants you to look nice, Miss Zoë! Please don't touch the lion!"

The huge cat sniffed Zoë's fingers and growled.

"Oh it is purring," said Julie, walking towards it too. "It must be lost. And hungry. Probably it doesn't like rats. Who would? Nice kitty..."

Zoë said, "Little Miss Perfect sucks dick, Monster!"

I gasped.

"That's what Uncle Lester says when Daddy says his uniform is not so neat and clean, when he helps Mommy and rolls in garbage and stuff."

Julie said absently, "Probably you don't wanna quote Lester, Z."

"Why not?

"Because."

"Oh."

Zoë reached out her little-girl skinny toothpick arms and gathered the creature to her silk-clad chest. It growled some more. Julie said, "I think it is a Maine coon cat. I read about them, they are big and stripe-y like this." Both girls turned to me, the enormous cat clutched in Zoë's arms and said in unison, "Can we take it home?"

"No!"

"Yes."

"Daddy will say yes," added Zoë.

Julie gave me her best Ranger stare. She did his tiny nod."He will say yes, you know he will."

"The animal is bigger than your doggy, Miss Zoë. Killer will be scared."

"Huh. I don't think so. Killy _wants _a sister."

Julie and I inadvertently glanced down and we both said, "Brother."

Zoë: "Whatever."

... ... ...

**We lugged the animal back to the Four Seasons and **smuggled it into the family's suite**.** En route we fed it dirty-water hot dogs from a street vendor. We settled it on Ranger's bed on a bath towel. Put water in a clean ashtray. And we went to the Palm Court at the Plaza to see the real Easter Bunny.

**the end**

**Please come see pictures and links, my website / blog info is in my profile.**

* * *

><p>happy spring!<p>

love

sunny


	38. Chapter 38 HeMan

**Shelter from The Storm**

**.**

This is the much requested follow up to Easter Bunny, in which Zoë and Julie tuck a feral Maine Coon Cat into Ranger and Stephanie's bed, in their suite at The Four Seasons NYC.

a/n I changed the chef's name, just to be polite. No offense intended, of course.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-eight<strong>

**Easter Bunny, Part Two ~The Tail of He-Man HotDoodles**

**.**

**_Roff-roff-roff! Roff-roff-roff!_**

**HeMan Hotdoodles** opened his eyes just a slit and stared secretly. The annoying sound was coming from what appeared to be an alien creature, part pug dog with mutations of odd wooly pastel things on his head. The noise was _very_ annoying.

HeMan heaved a disgusted sigh, snuggled back into the luxurious Four Seasons comforter and tried to return to kitty dreamland. He'd had a delightful day—the bed was soft and warm, and ever so cozy, the room itself empty and peaceful. The only interruption was the earlier arrival of a grey-uniformed maid who carefully worked around him, fluffing pillows and murmuring, _Hola, Senor Gatito Grande! Nice keeety, nice, nice keeety. I hope you do not bite me? Nice gato, nice. Nice. _She carefully placed tiny gold wrapped presents on the pillows of HeMan's new bed and left as discreetly as she had appeared.

HeMan stretched sensuously, then roused himself to investigate the gold tiny things.

_sniff-sniff._

_Oooh. Food._ He scarfed the chocolates up and now that the door was left open, he did some exploring in the large silent space. He found more rooms, with more beds...and ate each chocolate with pleasure.

After while his tummy rumbled a little. He looked around, then made his way to the large potted palm near the window.

_Oh, ah. Much better..._

And HeMan went back to the lovely smelling bed to nap in comfort.

But now this: _Roff-roff-roff! Roff-roff-roff!_

Then worse. HeMan sensed movements of air, scented an intruder. A large human quietly appeared, scooped up the little alien and said, "What's your problem, Killer?"

_Killer,_ thought HeMan. _Don't make me laugh!_

The little dog made the annoying sounds some more, and the man saw HeMan curled under the soft white and snuggly towel. "What the fu...?" the man whispered. Then he yelled, "Zoë! Julie!'

"Oh! daddy daddy daddy daddy! You have found the Easter Bunny! Lookit! Is he not adorable! He is called Bunny! We love him! Julie loves him, Killer loves him! Hi, Bunny!" cried the small human called Zoë. HeMan remembered her from the park.

The larger small human was here too. She added, "We found him at the Park. Monster let us bring him home."

"Monster," said the man. He didn't yell anymore but his voice was scary.

The ugly old human who bought HeMan hotdogs now appeared along with a very pretty human lady. The ugly man Monster said, "What? It is not for me to say no to your children, Ranger. That is your job, not mine."

"Crap."

''Daddy, you said crap!'' said the smaller child.

''Baby, he—it's filthy.''

''But we'll give him a bath! We'll walk him! We love him. He has no mommy! He was eating rats! Pleeeeze, daddy, pleeeeze." The girls, in unison.

The lady was laughing and carefully reached out to scratch HeMan's ears. He purred for her.

The large handsome daddy person said very calmly, "Call the concierge, babe, we're checking out. Now."

''What? Why?" The laughter stopped.

''I don't know about you but there is no fuc...no way I am sleeping in that bed with this creature's lice and fleas."

''Eeeew. Okay."

"And if the hotel sues us, it is coming out of your pay, my man," he told the old hotdog man.

''But, boss...''

''Here, take the dog into the other room. His barking is giving me a headache." The ugly man left with the ugly alien dog.

The daddy man went on, "Okay, we'll call the concierge, get a cage for this thing. Jorge and Arkady can drive it back to Trenton in the Explorer.''

''So, we can keep him! Oh, thank you, daddy, thank you.''

Hugs and smooches. HeMan sat up warily. _Trenton. New Jersey?_

The little person Zoë patted him, told him, ''Oh Bunny! So wonderful! You are coming home with us!"

"No, he is going right to the vet. He has to be de-liced, de-fleaed, dewormed. Bathed. Whatever. If the vet gives him a clean bill of health he can be fixed right away. Before he comes home."

''Fixed?'' asked the small girl.

''Yeah, fixed."

''But daddy, what is fixed, he looks okay to me...?''

''Chica, he has to get..." HeMan scowled while the large man suddenly floundered. "Neutered."

The bigger of the children told the little one, ''Bunny has to get his balls cut off! Like Killer! So he won't be a man cat anymore!"

HeMan and the large handsome man winced, but the man said, ''Yes. If we do not do that he will run away and look for lady cats."

HeMan preened.

''Oh. Okay. But Bunny is coming home with us?''

'''We'll see. Now get busy, the bellman will be here soon for our luggage.''

Everyone except the large handsome daddy man disappeared.

The man stood for a moment, hands on hips. Finally he said, "It doesn't have to be this way, Mr. Hotdoodles."

HeMan sat up and growled. He lashed his tail. He stared, unblinking, his golden eyes furious. _The man knew his name!_ He could somehow hear and understand HeMan's thoughts.

_How scary!_

The cat arched its back, swung a sharp clawed paw towards the human who stepped back and said, ''Yeah I thought so..."

He jerked his head towards the door. "When the concierge and bellman come in, that's your window of opportunity, man. Up to you." He turned to go, but came back and added, ''Live free or die hard, _hermano_."

...

Ten minutes later, in the confusion created by the family rushing to check out of the Four Seasons, HeMan made his escape.

_Freedom. Yeah, freedom._

He followed his nose towards the wonderful aromas of food, found the prep kitchen of the world famous _Atelier de Jean Robichaud_. He slipped into the kitchen, paused to _sniff-sniff-sniff_. Was that fish? Or...?

''Shoo! Scat! _Le chat enorme! Sortez d'ici! Venez_ OUT, _gros chat!_ Out!" Huge sweaty man in white attire waved a butcher knife at poor HeMan, who ran. A small man dressed the same way opened a door and scooted HeMan out with his kitchen clogged foot.

Adding insult to injury, he yelled, "Bad cat! Go away! Shoo." The door banged shut. HeMan was back in an alley, on familiar ground. He felt himself truly relax for the first time since the Zoë child found him and screamed _Bunny!_ He sniffed some more, then padded to an overflowing dumpster.

_Sniff, sniff? Someone did not care for Chef Robichaud's raw sea urchin morsels en langouste gelée...? Yum! Oooh. And the red snapper stuffed with rare duck breasts, mmm!_

A mighty leap, and HeMan was up on the dumpster's edge, He paused for a second, looked up at the waning spring moon overhead and began to sing:

_Born Free! As free as the wind blows, as free as..._

Life was good.

_**the end of the story, series tbc**_

* * *

><p><em><strong>link to see Killer yapping at something on the bed and to see Killer's Easter bonnet: pls visit my websiteblog. Link in my profile here. **_


	39. Chapter 39 Mission Accomplished

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**a/n: **This is for** "B" **who nicely asked for more Stephanie scenes and **"Anonymous" **who feels that my characters and I do not respect or love Stephanie! (When really it's all JE's fault, I wasn't the one who made Steph silly and incompetent...and my Stephanie is smart and funny and loves her little family and her life in my Plum world. And Ranger definitely loves _her!_ You can love someone but still laugh gently at their flaws and foibles, can you not? No one is perfect! )So...enjoy.

a/n 2 film quotes are involved here,lol.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 39 ~ Mission Accomplished <strong>

**. **

_Stephanie_

**I have a secret. Well, not exactly** a _secret_ secret...more like a new skill. No! I didn't learn self defense. No, I—well, you'll see.

I was in the kitchen in our loft on Haywood Street. It was early morning, barely daylight. I was starting the coffee when Ranger appeared. He was followed by his half brother Anthony. Both men smiled at me, Anthony said, "Good morning." Ranger said, "Babe."

They each kissed me, in turn.

Ranger just returned from his daily five mile run. He looked sweaty, happy and athletic in flimsy running shorts and a sleeves-ripped-out sweatshirt. Anthony was wearing neon paisley board shorts and a surf shop tee. He didn't seem to have been running with Ranger on this early April morning. And now that I thought about it, I'd never seen him run. Anywhere.

Anthony offered, "Nice day."

Ranger was very close behind me. He smelled delicious and I licked my lips. Oblivious, he reached over me to snag his herbal organic blueberry tea from an upper cabinet. He nodded a little, "Early spring this year."

"More like summer, dude." Anthony looked at me and added, "I'm trying to get Ranger to take the day, do some surfing. Nice and warm...the air is so dry, actually it feels more like fall. Perfect to hit some waves down at the shore."

Ranger ignored him.

Anthony said, "But no."

I took the tea out of Ranger's hand and told him, "I'll do that. Go get your shower."

''Thanks, babe, call Ella for breakfast."

He handed me the tea container and disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief. His half naked, pheromone-exuding body was verrry distracting.

I gave Anthony a little shove and told him, ''Go read the paper or something. I have things to do.''

He smirked at me, his eyes tracking from my flushed face towards the sound of the shower running. Sauntered off.

I stayed on task!

...

**Ten minutes later, Ranger reappeared** with our five-year-old daughter Zoë and her little pug dog Killer. She was dressed inappropriately for early April in a little yellow cotton sundress, salmon red capris, and neon blue Crocs. Ranger, bless him, had fixed her hair and it coiled in perfect ringlets around her sleepy face.

Ranger looked at me, looked at my secret project and asked, "Breakfast?"

I motioned to the bowl of raw eggs, the frying pan, the mound of chopped onions and mushrooms. "I'm making breakfast today!" My voice echoed with pride.

''Babe.''

''Here's your tea."

''What are we having?''

''Omelets! Both Ella and my mom have been coaching me. Since Christmas! And today's the day.''

''Hmmm.'' He looked me over, traced a gentle finger along my apron's neck string. "Cute."

I was flustered. I heard myself babbling. "Now I know you usually don't have American full fat cheese and so on, but mom says it's important to make a recipe the real way first. Then when you get good at that, you can start doing the healthful—uh, substitutions? So I hope you'll eat American cheese** and eggs with yolks just this once! Because so far I, um, haven't quite mastered separating the egg whites."

"Babe. And what's this...?"

''Butter." I think he cringed a little.

Anthony came over, leaned against the breakfast bar to watch. I stared him down. "You'll try an omelet too?''

Anthony's eating habits are as weird as Ranger's though very different. Either he doesn't want to eat at all, picks like an anorexic girl—or now and then he'll eat what I consider normal food—like pizza. But now he smiled at me, said, "Go for it."

I nodded firmly. "Okay. Here goes!'' I lit the gas under the omelet pan. Ranger hovered. I told him, "Stand behind me, this might get dangerous." I laughed nervously, added, "Or maybe I ought to get behind you."

"You let me know when it gets dangerous," he told me calmly.

"Barrel of laughs, Ranger!"

Okay, so the first omelet wasn't so pretty. "I'll eat that one! Set it in the microwave."

The men watched me carefully as I tried again. I'm pretty sure Ranger was trying to remember if there was a fire extinguisher handy, Anthony just looked amused. Probably both of them could flawlessly separate eggs. Behind them I could see Zoë at the dining table, quietly engrossed in what looked like a comic book, her little dog Killer alert at her feet, his face saying _Food!_

My all-male audience made me nervous. Ranger was mopping up spilled egg goo, trying to be supportive, I think. I snatched the soggy paper towels from his hand, said, ''Maybe you can pour Zoë's milk and take your tea...and your brother...and go sit down!" I gave him my best burg glare, he smiled and did as ordered.

The kitchen was again my private domain. And, yes! just as Ella promised, a few minutes later the last omelet slid onto a heated plate. It was extra small, for Zoë. I delivered the food and hustled back to the kitchen. Oops. I guess I should have turned off the stove? The pan was billowing greasy blue smoke so I flipped on the exhaust fan and tossed the frying pan into the sink.

''Not bad,'' I heard Anthony say.

''Hmmm.'' Ranger.

Zoë looked up from her comic book, shoved a bite of omelet into her mouth. ''Oh it's gooey, mommy!'' she called. ''And YUMMY." My heart swelled up like a helium balloon. _Food is, indeed, love._

I began cleaning up. My mom had told me a good cook always cleans as she works. So I was already way behind. I took a second though and peeked again at my family. All were eating. No one looked sick...yet.

Zoë turned a page, asked, "What's a Thark?" and shoved more omelet into her mouth.

"A what?" asked her daddy.

She read from her comic book. " 'Tars Tarkas said, _And you fight like a Thark_!' ''

Ranger lowered the Wall Street Journal, said, "Zoë, you're not supposed to read at the table."

She stared at both men reading the financial pages. "But daddy..."

Anthony said, ''A Thark is like a Klingon only meaner. Uglier."

"What's a Klingon?"

Ranger shoved back from the table. ''Baby, look at the time. Britta will be here any moment to take you to school. Run, brush your teeth.''

I scrubbed pots and pans. The men finished their coffee and tea in peace until Britta, Zoë's nanny, appeared.

Britta looked at Zoë's outfit, shook her head. ''Zoe, get your parka, it's supposed to snow later.''

The guys: ''Snow?''

Britta shrugged, "Springtime in Jersey." She sniffed. "Is something burning?"

''Not anymore...'' said Ranger.

Zoë reappeared with her backpack and her neon pink parka clutched in her arms. "Mommy! My eggies were very yum!" She did her best to hug me and I bent down and hugged her back. I whispered, "I'm so glad, baby."

"Can you make pancakes tomorrow, mommy? I extra, extra, _love_ pancakes!"

"Uh..."

"Zoë?"

''Coming, Britty! '' My beautiful daughter departed happily, singing [badly], _''Klingon, klingon, kling ooon Harvest Moon! Haaaar-Vest Moooon! January, Feb-YOU-ary, June and July! Haaaarrrvest Mooon!'' *_

Britta said, "What is Klingon?"

The front door opened again, and Zoë stopped singing, looked back at Anthony and said, ''See?''

The guys followed her back out, Anthony engrossed in a convoluted Klingon explanation worthy of Mooner at his worst. Best? And Ranger rubbing his forehead like a migraine was imminent.

...

**Silence. I was alone in the disastrous kitchen** mess. My own omelet was untouched, congealed. Cold. I zapped it for 30 seconds. Now I know why my mom never can sit down with everyone, is always jumping up.

_Ding!_

I sighed and looked at the egg-y mess in the microwave. I forked a bite into my mouth and told the omelet, ''Okay, yeah. We did it! You are ugly, but you are beautiful because I created you. Despite my shortcomings and fears. Mission accomplished. I cooked."

...

**Ten minutes later,** Stephanie Plum starts the dishwasher and heads off to her job at Plum Bail Bonds. She is happily contemplating the next highlight of her morning. Donuts for Tasty Pastry.

_Omelets...and cooking, are overrated._

_... ... ..._

the end of the story, series tbc

* * *

><p>* My brother loved Star Trek and for some reason whenever there was a Klingon episode, in the original old series, I guess on cable? - he'd crack up and sing this song to the tune of a really old song [no clue why he knew it, he's only a year older than me]. The lyrics are: <em>shine on, shine on, harvest moon<em>. That's all I know. Check out You Tube, also for Klingons and Tharks.

** from Wikipedia-**American Cheese**: (in case you live elsewhere):

**American cheese** is a processed cheese-like product. It is orange, yellow, or white in color and mild in flavor, with a medium-firm consistency, and melts easily. Today's American cheese is manufactured from a set of ingredients[such as milk, whey, milkfat, milk protein concentrate, whey protein concentrate, oil, and salt. It is emulsified, rolled out and sold sliced. In the United States it cannot be legally sold as "cheese", and must be labeled as "processed cheese", "cheese product", or similar—e.g., "cheese food". In Canada, exactly the same product, often by the same manufacturer with the same label design, used to be sold as "Canadian cheese" or "Canadian slices". Today most such cheese in Canada is vaguely labelled just "slices" or "singles". In the United Kingdom, packs are labelled as "singles" although it is commonly called cheese slices.


	40. Chapter 40 Misplaced

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**Chapter 40 ~ ****Misplaced **

_._

_Ranger_

**A meeting with TPD and DEA** on a warmer than normal April day in Trenton NJ. One of the local detectives was droning on, "...and there will be no utilization of confidential informants unless every applicable form is filled out in triplicate and posted on our website..."

_Doesn't sound very confidential to me_, came to mind immediately.

One of the undercover DEA agents mumbled sarcastically, "I want a lawyer..."

''Yeah and a sandwich," added his partner. ''All this bullshit is making me hungry."

TPD cops glared. DEA guys sulked. I reached for the Advil I keep stashed in my cargo pocket and started to say maybe we should take a break. But my intentions, while good, were rudely interrupted.

_Bang Bang Bang!_

A not at all discreet knock on the conference room door. It then immediately swung open and my daughter Zoë stormed in.

Everyone smiled. Except me.

I frowned a little and said, "Zoë..." meaning to remonstrate about the intrusion, but she steamrolled on by me.

''Daddydaddydaddy! Have you seen Killer's new sweater?"

I cringed from the memory of the poor creature's new...garment and carefully admitted, ''Yes."

''Where?" Stomp of foot.

"What do you mean, where? You showed it to me the other day. And you are interrupting a meeting, Zoë. You're being very rude."

"Ooooh. I am sorry, daddy. Hi, misters!" Little finger wave. "But Killer's new sweater is missing! I do NOT think he likes it and I believe he has stolen it and hidden it!"

''Well..." _Who can blame him? Really._

''Mommy says you can always find anything, daddy. So where is it?''

I said to our now goggle-eyed audience, ''Excuse us for a moment." I got up and took Zoë by the hand, intending to take her out of the room. She dug in her heels and started to cry.

All the hardass cops and feds went, _''Aaaw. Poor baby..."_

Zoë brandished her pink iPhone and sobbed, ''I want to update my Facebook status, daddy. Right now! I have many many bubbles ready to blow, Britta and me made a whole tub of bubble gunk! And I want to take a picture of Killer and the bubbles and and and..._sob."_

''Baby, it is way too warm to make Killer wear a sweater," I told her. I opened the conference room door and tried to nudge her out of the room, but to no avail.

Then, clickety click click. The little 'man' in question appeared, his tiny nails ticking on the tile corridor.

''Mmmumphf!'' he barked. Then he ran, well, waddled up to me and growled. I let go of my daughter's hand. She saw her dog, stopped crying and yelled, "Killy! Where is your new sweater? It is so pretty, you know you look so cute in pink!"

Muffled laughter behind me. Oh fer chrissakes. How badass can I possibly look after this fiasco. Zoë plots very well for a five year old, and I figured I'd have to concede defeat for now. If I scold the kid they'll think I'm an abusive asshole, if I let her act like this they'll think I'm a pushover.

Ranger Manoso, bested by a child. (Yeah, _again!_ Can we not go there? Please?)

In my head I could hear Stephanie laughing and saying, _Man up, Manoso, you're the parent._

Good advice. I hoped.

I bent down and took the pink iPhone from Zoë's hand. I said sternly, "No pictures! No Facebook."

_''Wah! wah!'' _

"No tantrums! And no more outfits for Killer, he looks like an idiot."

The dog met my eyes and I swear his sad little pug face grinned. _Yay!_

And he waddled briskly off down the hall, whirlwind Zoë on his heels.

Silence.

Then the pink phone played a stupid kiddie song. _I had to answer a pink phone!_

Britta the nanny's Swedish accent came from the tiny speaker."I haf found ze zveater, Zoë. Come, bubbles are waiting!"

I was tempted to yell, ''You're fired!" But no. I very calmly put the pink phone in my pocket with the Advil and sat back down. "Where were we, gentlemen?"

No one had the balls to laugh.

...

_**Killer's sweater, on YouTube: **_link will be in my profile here.

Be sure to look, it ll make you laugh!

the end, series tbc

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><p>Thanks for reviewing!<p>

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><p>an Part 3 of Snow Day is up on my blog/ website. Link is also in my profile...enjoy.


	41. Chapter 41 Just Two Guys Talking

**Shelter from the Storm**

.

a/n: This story references** Adalind's Better the Devil You Know id:5706042 and mentions the guys' job with her character Bailey. **You don't have to read her story to understand mine, but it's a cool Ranger and Anthony fic that takes places either before Ranger met Stephanie or in a very different world...Sometimes our world's collide? bump gently? anyway, enjoy...

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><p><strong>Chapter 41 ~ Just Two Guys, Talking<strong>

**.**

_Anthony_

"**You ever think about** all these rooftops, man?"

?

"You know, like how many roofs, how many hours—how many scumbags?"

"No."

"Gotta be, like, lots."

"Mmmm."

Ranger and I were lying on yet another rooftop in a small city in southern XXXX. Urban warfare, lol. Our field of expertise.

The target was yet another terrorist wannabee, sigh again. Yeah, still here after all these years, saving the world for freedom and democracy and what all. We were working the paired sniper bit and right now we were both spotting because our mark had not come out to play for the two days we'd been sitting here. Ranger was watching though his rifle scope and I was using my high res binoculars.

A long silence passed.

I said, "Remember that first job when you got me back into this shit, bro? Sitting on that rooftop, in—where, Philly?—looking for Bailey, thinking she was a guy?"

'Uh huh."

"Man, I was so pissed at you. And you were totally into it, like—_are we gonna bond now?"_

"Did you want to?" said Ranger.

"Hell no, I mostly wanted you dead and gone, man."

"Too bad."

"Naw, I realized pretty quick that you needed me to watch your back again. Couldn't kill you under those circumstances, could I?"

?

"And in the end I was grateful—cos, oh man, Bailey, she was something. Something else."

"Hot," said Ranger.

"Oh, yeah. And scary. Remember how she was like doing the aka Dervla? Cracked me up."

"Maybe it got lost in the translation, maybe it's a normal name in Ireland."

"If she's really from Ireland," I pointed out. We both grinned and shook our heads, remembering the feisty young woman with the long black hair and more personal weaponry than Ranger and myself combined.

I said, "You ever hear from her?" Bailey was way in our past, before Trenton, or Stephanie, or, well...

"Not since Zoë was born."

"Yeah…"

Silence prevailed.

After an hour or so I said, " Have you ever thought about doing things differently?"

"How do you mean?" asked Ranger.

I said, "I don't know. Being somebody else? Someone... normal?"

Ranger, after a long pause, said, "No."

I waited and he finally added, "But I can see the appeal sometimes. Or at least I am aware it's important to other people…."

"Like…?"

"Julie is applying for early college admissions now," explained Ranger. _Non sequitur_, anyone? I tried to look omniscient and nodded sagely. He went on, "She has to decide on her main college choices by May 1st—there's a deadline for applications."

"Isn't Julie, like, sixteen?" I could swear I just went to her Sweet Sixteen party a few months ago, Ranger gave her a cute little pink Boxster…?

"Yeah, that's why they call it early admissions."

Finally I caved and asked "What's that got to do with normal, bro?"

"It's Rachel—she and Ron hired this get-into-college coach."

"Julie is a straight A student, who plays sports and has an IQ that's off the charts. Not to mention a trust fund….Why an admissions coach?"

"They paid this coach guy a four grand retainer to help Julie get into the college of her choice. Rachel wants Julie to go to FSU."

"Florida State is a major party school, dude."

If looks could kill! I added, "I figured Julie was headed to Harvard, for sure."

"Yeah, me too—or Yale or Princeton if she keeps up with the modeling career, wants to be close to NYC. Or even Columbia or NYU. But no—Rachel wants Julie to be effin' _normal."_

"Geez."

"And they don't want to put me down as her father, just Ron and Rachel as her parents,"

"Oh well, um." In a way that part of the story made sense even if it did hurt Ranger's feelings.

"And get this—the coach wants Julie to file as a minority student, they want her to apply for these government freebie Pell grants."

I'm a banker, I know about Pell grants. But I know more about trust funds and Ivy League creds.

I said, "You've got to be kidding. Minority—what minority? The infinitesimal minority of the truly exquisitely beautiful, man? Isn't that what they said about her in, like, Vogue?'

Ranger stared at me dead-eyed. This bonding and sharing shit, although it passes the time while surveilling whackos, can be a minefield in itself. Yeesh.

I said, "What?"

"She looks like me, bro. Like us."

"Yeah, you're still hot, man. And still thirty. How's Rachel doing with that?"

Ranger finally smiled. "Not well. She's, what? Thirty-five, thirty-six?"

We both laughed, rather meanly—but still.

Ranger went on, "So they want Julie to apply for these Pell grants as a non-Caucasian Hispanic. They don't even say Latina."

We considered that in silence for a few minutes then I said, "Does Julie still want to be a doctor, like your mom?"

Ranger grimaced.

I hastily added, "Well, maybe not just like your mom—different personalities and all. But—MD?"

"Uh huh, but maybe research…."

"So MD from Harvard and PhD from MIT in nuclear bio-chem or something. She can decide later specifics—that seems like the way to go."

?

"Will it be an issue for Rachel?"

"Julie usually gets what she wants. I'm not concerned. Yet."

"And the scholarship grants, the Pell money?"

"It seems absurd to apply for free government money when I've been putting all that government money in her college fund all these years. You administer the kids' trust funds, you know that."

"Yes but you—we—earned that money," I said.

"Yeah, earned it the old-fashioned way—killing assholes for fun and profit."

I said, "Speaking of—isn't that our guy?"

We focused on the mark. Kaboom—figuratively speaking, of course. Our weapons are always silenced.

Ka-ching….

**the end, series tbc**

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><p><strong>an 2 The option of citing minority status when filing for grants for education assistance in no way reflects a positive or negative assessment on my part. It is not intended to offend anyone and if it does, my apologies on behalf of whatever bureaucrat thought this stuff up. Pell grants are/were available to non-minority persons also, as well as, believe it or not, non-US citizens.**


	42. Chapter 42 Let's Pretend

**a/n: I expect to post a new Anthony oneshot on my blog tonight, or Saturday. June 1, 2, 2012. Come visit! Link is in my profile.**

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><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**.**

**.**

**Chapter Forty-two ~ ****Let's Pretend**

**.**

_A late night, half a world away from Trenton, NJ….._

_Ranger_

**Probably we won't live through tomorrow**. Sometimes our clients call these ops _suicide missions_ and what they mean is that if it all goes fubar, they will have committed political or media suicide. Whatever. So they send me. Us.

And then of course there are, like with this current job, true suicide missions, where we the soldiers are willing and able to offer our lives, _give_ our lives, for the greater good. For our country, for peace, or freedom, for the ones we love. So if tomorrow we all die, it should not be totally in vain.

Special Operations handlers spend a lot of time training us to withstand torture. We are taught to mentally distance ourselves from fear and pain. To focus on our inner core of strength. We are taught to visualize an inner haven of calm and serenity—very Zen. And then to recognize—to seek and find—our "happy place."

Is that not the lamest, gayest phrase you've ever heard? _Happy place?_ Sounds like a whorehouse in Taipei. Geez. Do they really think badass covert/black operatives have Happy Places? I don't think so—unless it's a grass hut tiki bar on the beach on some Caribbean island, filled with hot horny women and free umbrella drinks with beer chasers for all.

Happy Place—bullshit.

… … …

**Instead I focus on the task ahead**. I check and recheck my equipment. I go over the engagement plan again in my mind. My guys are well-briefed, well-trained. I am not gonna nag them. But I can ruminate here alone, in silence, right? And most importantly I focus on the goal, on the end product. I visualize success, not death.

And so in my mind, right now, I am not seeing bombed out smoking ruins or my own funeral…. Instead it's a day far in the future. I am ducking out of the big, unmarked military helicopter, still dressed in my filthy black Spec Ops fatigues. I walk across the tarmac, ignoring the press and the politicians here to laud our bravery.

I look at the small terminal of this tiny once-clandestine airport and standing there on this perfect May morning are Stephanie and Julie, Zoë and Justine. Steph's dark curls are blowing wildly in the breeze, her flowery skirt is pressing close to her body. And Julie stands straight and beautiful beside her, her smile lights up the world. Stephanie's right hand clutches Zoë's and her left arm holds infant Justine wrapped in a white blanket.

Steph and Zoë (but_ not_ Julie,lol) are both wearing rainbow Crocs with white ankle socks, and briefly I wonder if this is a nightmare or a dream. But the sun shines on their dark curls and they all smile wide as I drop my gun case and hug them tight.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay—just so you all don't worry, the guys got home safely. But sometimes even Ranger gets the blues…<strong>

And they lived HEA

**the end, series tbc**

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><p>Thanks for reviewing!<p> 


	43. Chapter 43 Pink Lemonade

**Shelter from the Storm**

**[sorry if this comes up as a double post!, I had to fix something...]**

**.**

**a/n some film quotes here...enjoy**

**Zoe is 4.**

**Chapter Forty-three ~ Pink Lemonade —**

_When life gives you lemons, honey, make pink lemonade!_

_._

**''Daddydaddydaddy! **You're here!''

_Well, yes. But..._

I caught my whirlwind little daughter and gave her a hug.

_"_We are having a tea party! You're right on time!"

My daughters were spending a week or so at the beach with my aunt Olivia. But that's not why I was here.

"Tea party?" Tank loomed up behind me and we both stared. The kitchen table was set with a jam jar of wildflowers, a blue and white checkered cloth; there were little white plates with blue flowers...and large martini glasses suspiciously full of something pink. Killer the Pug sat nearby, alert and ready for cookie crumb action. He was wearing a big pale blue satin bow. He saw me and waddled over, gave a snort.

"Hey, dawg," I said. _Love the bow, boy. Very manly._

_gggrrrrr._

Zoë peeked around me and scowled. "Tankie? Hi, Tankie! But where is mommy?"

''Uh...''

''Lookit! We made peppermint short stuff...''

''Shortbread,'' said Olivia.

"...cookies!"

And indeed there was a platter of beautiful pink tinged cookies.

"Ooooh! they are so yummy! I stirred them all by myself! And cut them out with this special heart cookie cutter thing. It is very old! And we made blueberry jam, and scones, and and and...I think I'm confused but I am not sure!—why isn't mommy here? Tank is not my mommy."

''Your mommy and Aunt Lula are working, baby. But Tank loves cookies."

''Absolutely." Tank nodded bravely.

Olivia grinned—maybe a tinge evilly?—and said, "Sit down, boys. There's plenty."

Tank pulled out a chair and sat. _Traitor._

"Daddy! This is _pink lemonade_!'' Zoë pointed at the martinis.

_Oh thank god!_

''I'll have lemonade,'' agreed Tank.

Olivia patted my shoulder. ''I have plain iced tea, honey." She opened her mammoth glass-fronted Sub-Zero fridge and peered inside.

I asked her, "Where is everyone?"

"Monster is out by the pool..."

I glanced outside. Yeah, there was Zoë's bodyguard, unfortunately dressed in blue and green flowered board shorts and a clashing Margaritaville parrot shirt. I hoped it was covering his guns. He had his own iced tea, a thick 'beach reading' novel, and flipflops. Not a pretty sight.

_''And?''_

Olivia gave me a _Don't take that tone with me_ look. Tank stuffed his face with another cookie. Passed one down to Killer.

''Anthony took Julie and Britta surfing, he said the waves out at Montauk would be awesome because of that storm, Beryl?, down south last week. Julie is getting to be a very good surfer, I understand.''

I thought about frowning and said, "I've been trying to call Anthony all morning, I need his, uh, input. I figured he was on the golf course and not answering."

"Nope,'' said Zoë, ''Surf's up, dudes. Radical. But then they said I was too little. Huh! Isn't that mean! But I am having a tea party instead. And Jorge went with. Uncle Anthony said he'd give him a lesson too. He has taught Britta already, but mostly I think he likes to see her in her teeny weeny bikini. I hope the top does not fall off this time!"

Tank coughed.

Jorge—Georgy—is Julie's bodyguard; Britta is Zoë's nanny. Both my employees are obviously AWOL.

I frowned visibly this time. But no one noticed.

Olivia opened the back door and called, "Arkady! Tea is served! We made scones!"

Arkady appeared almost instantly.

"Working hard, I see," I muttered sarcastically. Arkady hitched up the boardies, no doubt a loan from my brother, as they had quite a large hole in the ass, I noticed, when he turned to help Olivia with the tea pitcher.

Now he looked at me, scratched his hairy white chest and nodded. "I am doing the research, my boy. I am reading this bounty hunter book, called _One for the Money._ In it a young woman becomes a badass bounty hunter, as I hope to be someday."

I knew Arkady wasn't so happy being a fulltime bodyguard for my daughter. And he was pissed off that Dragan aka Dave, another old friend/ new recruit was allowed to work Rangeman jobs. I was training Dave for sales, though, he can talk anyone onto anything. (Or he kills them? Just kidding. Really.) Arkady has different skills. (Sort of. At least he doesn't surf!) But now was not the time to debate or discuss this.

Fortunately Zoë interrupted our stare-down. "Daddy! We are making a quilt!"

"A quilt?''

I returned my attention to Zoë, who reached in the pocket of her little faded pink shorts and dug out a wad of cotton cloth. The cloth was pink, and ugly yellow, and brown. I said, "Hmmm.'' Quiltmaking was a part of summer at Olivia's, just like getting fresh blueberries at the farmers market was, and surfing, and making cookies with your favorite choice from her huge collection of antique hand-forged cookie cutters.

However the colors here...

Zoë smoothed it out carefully on the table. "It will be for Amy!" Amy was seated across from Tank. She smiled vacantly, ate nothing.

Amy is Zoë's rather creepy American Girl doll. Zoë did not want a little girl doll who looked like herself; instead she had asked for the blonde, blue eyed Early American Prairie Girl doll. Stephanie and I decided not to make an issue of the blonde hair thing. What made the doll—dolls, really—creepy was the weirdly spray-tanned surreal plastic skin, and fake ''real'' hair (long glossy tan braids in Amy's case) and demented eyes. "It is authentic!" Zoë told us proudly.

Olivia told me, "We used an antique doll quilt for inspiration."

I gulped my tea.

''And guess what else! Izzy was here and she is making a quilt too!"

Both Tank and I cringed. "She's here? Now?" asked Tank. We looked around cautiously.

''No, she went to tennis lessons."

"She won't be back for an hour or so,'' added Olivia.

I know we shouldn't be afraid of a little seven year old child but Izzy! The child is a witch.

Tank said carefully, ''Did her parents get everything straightened out with, uh...?''

Olivia shrugged. "Oh it was just a misunderstanding. The report makes it crystal clear...just, you know..."

''But she terrorized the teacher with a USB cable!" said Tank.

''He was a..." Olivia raised her eyebrows, glanced at Zoë.

Who yelled, "A BAD MAN!"

''And she was only defending herself. With the USB thing. Not the whole cable, just the little flash drive. I mean, how could that hurt anyone? Really? We still have _no idea_ why the man exploded."

Zoë whispered loudly, ''It was a freakin' mess. She told me!"

"High blood pressure?" offered Tank weakly.

"Uh huh." I actually stuck a cookie in my mouth.

Only Izzy could scare someone to death with a thumb drive.

Jilly and Nick's daughter had stayed after school to work on an end-of-the-school-year history project with a group of other fourth graders. (She skipped a couple years, she's a genius.) Somehow the history teacher cornered her in the empty media supply room, he scared her and she panicked. Thankfully she wasn't armed, but she somehow chased the guy outdoors, brandishing a USB drive and...the rest is still unclear. Let's just say a child molester got what he deserved?

Olivia smiled at me. ''You wanna see Julie's quilt, Ranger? She liked the Amish Stars idea."

''Amish Stars?''

"Uh-huh. It's, you know, black."

**the end** of the story, series tbc

Thank for reviewing! It means so much...


	44. Chapter 44 The House

Shelter from The Storm

**a/n **This week's story should have been A Perfect Fourth of July...but it's here on ff as a oneshot, so pls go read it, enjoy! Instead we're jumping ahead a few years, Zoe is about 6.

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><p><strong>Chapter 44 ~ The House <strong>

**. **

**Stephanie looked around as the Porsche rolled over yet another bridge**. Left and right, pretty scenes of salt marshes and white sand coves and blue green water. Far off to the left, beyond Ranger's silent face, she could see the misty edges of what must be the Atlantic Ocean. In the coves were a few boats, both large and small, and Steph could see colorful tents and umbrellas and big red or blue plastic coolers. A few people fishing or swimming or sunbathing.

She said, "So what're we doing here, Ranger? We're camping? Or God forbid, going fishing?"

"Just wait and see, babe. It's a surprise."

"Hunh."

The Cayenne coasted down the final hump of the last bridge, stopped at an intersection that seemed to go nowhere, at least nowhere forward. Dead end at the ocean. Ranger made a left and drove—inched—into a tiny town, a tiny seaside town that had a 10 MPH speed limit posted and a cop in a white Tahoe sitting at the only stoplight, waiting there to enforce it.

The town appeared to be about six short blocks long. Steph could see the ocean again at the end of the—ha, ha!—main drag and one block each way on the cross streets. On the bay side to her left was a very large marina, filled with sailboats and big cabin cruisers and even some commercial-looking fishing trawlers.

"I guess we're not in Jersey anymore," said Steph. There weren't too many cars, mostly big SUVs like the Cayenne and a few sporty convertibles. All had NY State plates.

Ranger didn't answer. Probably he thought all the signs—_Jones Beach, Fire Island, Montauk_ was clue enough. He made another left at the first tiny cross street and drove to the end of the block. The dozen or so houses were a mixture of small renovated bungalows and big beach houses, all shoved tight together and all sporting masses of colorful flowers and big seashells on the raised front steps. Lots of American flags waving against the bright blue July sky.

Ranger parked at the final house at the end of the street. It looked brand-new—the windows still had their Weld-Jenn labels on them—and whoever built it must have torn down at least eight of the tiny bungalows. It was part 3-story sprawling Victorian, part Nantucket gray shingled beach mansion, with a turret and a widows walk and wraparound decks. The shutters were blueberry blue, the deck railings bright white and the big double doors were persimmon rose-red. No yard or lawn, but lots of big terracotta pots filled with masses of petunias and geraniums and happy golden marigolds.

Dubiously eying the exuberant flowers Steph followed Ranger up the hand-set flagstone steps. When they got to the door instead of knocking or ringing the bell—or in Ranger's case, kicking the doors in—he handed Steph a set of keys.

She looked at the brass keys in her hand and said, "What did you do?"

"I bought us a house, babe. I hope you like it…." He sounded a tiny bit less self-assured than usual.

She said, "You _know_ I don't want a house!"

"Steph, we've discussed this for weeks, I know you didn't want to bother to look for a house, but I think you'll like this one if you'll just try."

He took the keys from her and led her into an open area with a cathedral ceiling and sweeping stairway.

Stephanie said, "I don't want to move to New York! I want to stay in Trenton! You can't possibly commute from here every day, Ranger. And Zoe is in school—she _likes_ her school."

Ranger said calmly, "This can be for weekends for now, Steph. But when the baby comes,"—he gestured to her bulging tummy—"we're going to need more space. This way you can enjoy the summers here at the beach, the kids can play outside safely…. And you can sort of ease yourself into the house idea."

"So this is not for full time?"

"Not if you don't want it to be but it's a nice little town. It has great bars and restaurants and a couple art galleries, a good wine shop, a library, a yoga place. A marina, the beach."

_A helicopter landing pad…._

_No crime. No Helen Plum..._

Steph narrowed her eyes at him, "If I look this place up, is it going to be in the top 100 most expensive zip codes in the United States?"

"Maybe," he waffled. "But it's not pretentious, it's just the location. It's very small and friendly."

"Hmmmm."

Stephanie walked through the large empty house, noting the gourmet kitchen(stainless/ granite), the in-ground pool, the light-filled master bedroom with spa bath and the stunning ocean and salt marsh views from every window.

Finally Ranger said, "Do you think you can make a home here, babe?"

"Sure, Ranger, all I need is a plan, a bomb, and a willing ruthless accomplice and it'll be home sweet home. We'll fit right in—me, Batman, the bat babies, our Rangeman bodyguards, Ella and Louis, the au pair and the rest of the gang…it'll be a blast. I can't wait to show it to Lula!"

"Babe. Promise me—no bombs."

"Sure—I'll try real hard."

Ranger hugged her and their unborn second daughter. And he hoped for the best.

the end, series tbc

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><p>Thanks for reviewing!<p>

Don't forget to read (or reread?) A Perfect Fourth of July...and Happy Summer! love, sunny


	45. Chapter 45 Access Denied

**July 8, 2012 There's a new oneshot on my blog tonight,in Anthony's file, a short with him and Ranger. Link is in my profile, enjoy.**

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><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**.**

a/n: [ We're going back in time a bit from last week, Zoe is four. [this makes no sense...oh well.] —

**Chapter 45 ~ Access Denied**

**.**

**''Okay, girls, you may each** choose a story tonight.''

''I want _**Mrs. Tiggy Winkle**_, did you bring the Tiggy book, Britta, it's my favorite!''

Britta smiled. Tonight felt different from most of her days and nights as a nanny—tonight she was ''babysitting'' Zoë and her cousin Izabelle while the girls' parents went out to dinner. Often Britta's evenings were free; Ranger and Steph were conscientious parents who tried very hard to be home to tuck their little girl into bed each night. And if they went out, usually Ella sat with Zoë. But this weekend the Manosos were visiting Izabelle's parents' home at the beach and this evening Britta was happy to pitch in. Especially since the presence of the two little girls together required the services of not one but two!—hot handsome Rangeman bodyguards.

Now the little girls were tucked up in Izzy's bed, in her austerely white and pearl grey bedroom. The only spots of color were the bright pink and white striped sheets ( Izzy's sole concession to politeness, a gesture of welcome for her baby cousin.) and Izzy's deceptively angelic sky blue eyes. The children wore summer versions of Zoë's favored white frilly Wendy nighties and they sat expectantly, pillows plumped, waiting to be entertained.

But now Izzy frowned. "That's a baby story."

''No! I love it, Aunt Livy is gonna make me a Tiggy quilt!" Big brown eyes swam with tears, rosebud lips quivered. Britta stifled her sigh—the children were very overexcited and overtired, tantrums lurked on the horizon...

She said calmly, "It's a lovely story, Zoë. And you will have your turn, missy," she added to Izzy.

"Huh. Okay, let's read it on my new _Surface_, my new tablet."

"Nooooo."

''Zoë likes the book I have brought from my home in Sweden, Izzy. It was mine when I was a little girl. And before that it belonged to my mama when she was a little girl. It is quite special."

''Is it in English?"

"Yes!" Britta showed the girls the little old grey green book.

"Oh. Okay. It's kinda cute, I guess."

"Yes, so..." Britta gently opened the tiny old book.

"Wait!'' said a male voice.

''Yes?'' Britta turned to one of the bodyguards. Tonight both Dragan Dardesqu' and Lester Santos were on duty and both had insisted on sitting in on story time. Britta could kind of see the fascination for poor Dragan who had a sad childhood in a state orphanage. But as best Britta could tell, Lester Santos came from the same pampered rich background as her boss Ranger and Izzy's parents.

Not to mention he was spending more time flirting with her than observing the kids.

Now Lester asked, ''What's a Tiggy Winkle?"

''You did not have Beatrix Potter books as a child?''

''I was a Pooh kid, personally.''

"Pooh is so cool," agreed Izzy.

''So...?" intervened Dragan.

Zoë sat up and informed him, ''Mrs. Tiggy Winkle is a hedgehog. Duh!"

''Hedgehog? Yum.''

Huge brown eyes. ''What? Yum?''

Dragan smiled reminiscently. "I can't remember when I last had a hedgehog goulash... it is delicious, a delicacy in my country."

''We've never had a hedgehog goulash,'' murmured Izzy. "Mom is semi-veggie..."

''Wah! You can't eat Tiggy! I LOVE her, she wears pink stripe-y dresses, and and and a pinny!- and she irons." From Zoë.

''Little one, it could be much worse, there were days we'd have killed for an old dead fish to grill over the coals. A nice plump hedgehog...oh, delish!"

''Wah!''

''Shut up!'' Britta yelled at Dragan, who raised a sultry brow and grinned. ''No one is going to eat...excuse me." Britta's cell phone was playing a Nicki Minaj tune, her new ringtone, "...I must answer this it could be your mama, Zoë, or Ranger..._Ja_?"

Britta listened and a frown formed on her lovely face. "What? How did you get this number? There is no Mrs. Santos here!"

Her eyes met Lester's. He shrugged, shook his head. Dragan looked furious.

"Goodbye!'' The iPhone slid back into Britta's tight jeans.

"Is there something I should know?" Dragan, who was under the delusion that he was her (only) boyfriend, had his hand on his sleeve where she knew he hid a lethal, scary knife.

"Oh for heaven's sake. You'll frighten the girls!" The three adults looked at the children who appeared fascinated but in no way afraid. Izzy grinned meanly. She caught Dragan's glance and waggled her fine platinum fairy eyebrows.

''What are you looking at, little girl? What do you see?'' seethed Dragan.

Izzy's smile got bigger. ''Everything. That is my curse. And yours."

Dragan made the crossed fingers anti-vampire gesture at her, and she just smiled. "Or should I say, my gift?"

Dragan backed away.

''You two! Sit down or I will have Ranger use you both for target practice. You are behaving very badly!'' Her best nanny voice was quelling and the two men sheepishly shuffled back to their spot on Izzy's grey velvet loveseat.

''Now. What is your story choice, Izabelle?"

''We must read _The Ransom of Red Chief_, please."

Lester spluttered a laugh but Dragan and Britta looked politely clueless.

''I have it here on my ...oh. Access denied? How can that be?''

''It's okay, Izzy,'' piped up Zoë, "it's my Daddy's favorite too. He says it's a good plan. Just In Case. I have it on my Kindle.'' The child pulled her pink Kindle out from under the pink candy striped pillows.

Both men put their hands on their weapons. (What, her dad keeps a gun under the pillows! Ya never know.)

Zoë held up the Kindle. Only the Kindle.

The men relaxed slightly.

Britta took the small tablet and began to read,

_"__It looked like a good thing: but wait till I tell you...We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage financier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you...''_

**the end**

* * *

><p>from Wikipedia: "<strong>The Ransom of Red Chief<strong>" is a 1910 short story by O. Henry. It follows two men who kidnap and attempt to ransom a wealthy Alabaman's son; eventually, the men are driven to distraction by the boy and end up having to pay the boy's father to take him back.

a/n: the original story is somehat dated now, but the premise is still often used and still, I think, amusing. Anyone who kidnaps Izzy is gonna regret it, bigtime.

Beatrix Potter / **Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle** . The books are still in print, the artwork is still adorable; quilting fabric with the images is available at the moment.


	46. Chapter 46 Happy Birthday Baby

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**.**

a/n:In honor of their birthdays, Ranger and Zoe's, on August 12th: Zoë's fifth birthday party! My how time flies...

**Chapter 46 - Cowabunga, A$$h****es!**

**Another tedious meeting in DC. **I was thrilled when my iPhone vibrated and displayed Steph's number. I pushed back from the long conference table and the drone who was rambling on about tangos and targets stopped talking and looked at me. I got up, said, "Excuse me, it may be an emergency," and went out in the hall to take Steph's call.

Today was the day of my daughter Zoë's fifth birthday party. Not the family party, we were having that on her real birthday in a couple days. Julie was coming up from Miami and my mom was trying to make it home from, she says, Africa-for Zoë's big day. But today was the party for Zoë and all her little friends. I had read online in a parenting blog that a child should have as many guests as the age she'd be. (Yes I read parenting blogs, I need all the help I can get.) Zoë however had insisted on fifty (yes, 50!) of her dearest friends, enemies, and neighborhood buds. Stephanie had assured me that neither my presence nor a contingent of Rangeman bodyguards were needed for the event which was being held at Frank and Helen Plum's home in the Burg.

So I went to DC as planned, worried but hopeful, I guess you might say. But now a phone call.

Steph answered happily, "Yo.''

"Yo yourself, babe."

"Hi, Ranger!"

"How's it going, babe?"

"Well it's _going_…. Some major sugar overloads, a couple of tantrums. Right now the kids are in their bathing suits running through the sprinkler in mom's backyard."

"What aren't you telling me, Steph?"

"Oh, well, ah. Um," Steph waffled. "Well, Ranger, it seems that Joey Morelli was allowed to choose Zoë's gift himself…."

_If it was pornography I was gonna strangle the kid. _Even though usually I liked the little guy who was Zoë self-styled boyfriend and dauntless playground protector.

"And?" I ground out.

"So—he got Zoë one of those chemical rocket things, you know, you add the baking powder and so on and it flies up in the air?"

"Uh huh."

Steph said, "I have to admit I think I saw a certain gleam in Elisa's eyes, like maybe this was payback or something." Elisa was Morelli's very Burg wife, mother of Joey and assorted other rug rats. "And I do not think it is age-appropriate at all! So anyway, Zoë wanted to run right out and shoot it off but I tried to persuade her to save it for this weekend at the beach."

"Good idea." I could supervise.

"Yes but it seems that while mom and Val and I were making the hot dogs and feeding everyone, Zoë and Joey had a brainstorm. They somehow took the blasting caps and inserted them into the decorative clowns that were the candle holders on the birthday cake."

"Were?"

"Uh, yeah. The cake and stuff kinda blew up…."

"Is anyone hurt?"

"No."

"Is the building on fire?" I asked very calmly.

"No but it's gonna need a paint job and a shitload of screen doors."

"Tell your parents I will have an insurance adjuster there this afternoon and a contractor by 8 AM tomorrow."

"Thank you, Ranger! I am so relieved that you're taking this so well."

"Babe, even if I hadn't been standing right there when you gave birth I'd know Zoë is your daughter. Things are gonna blow up, it's her destiny. Just as long as no one was hurt and no one got arrested, that's all that matters."

A few beats of silence then Stephanie said, "Yeah well we're gonna have more FBI guys, I guess."

"FBI?"

"Yes, it seems that the neighbors called it in as a _bomb blast!_ And these local FBI guys are here, asking a LOT of questions and scaring Zoë. They made her cry!"

"Uh huh." Zoë could do fake tears at the drop of a hat, let alone a cake explosion. Like her mom, Zoë _loves_ cake.

"So Lula and I kicked them out and they said they'd be getting reinforcements from the main office. And they'd be BACK! Is that where you are, Ranger?"

I was at the Pentagon, but I couldn't tell my wife that, especially on an unencrypted cell phone. "I'll make some calls, babe."

"Okay. And you know this new phone you got me? How it takes really nice videos?"

"Yeah?"

"So I was filming Zoë for you, everyone was singing _Happy Birthday_ and all. The cake had pink frosting and there were all these candles….It's on the film…I am sending it now! She looks so cute! Bye!"

….

**Steph hung up fast and I opened the video sequence**. Great color, live action, clear sound—my adorable baby girl, five years old [almost], huge brown eyes wide and shining, cheeks scarlet pink with excitement, pink sundress, bows in the wild curly hair.

_''Happy Birthday to You! Happy birthday to Zoë, Happy birthdaaay! To YOU!''_

She takes a huge breath to blow out the candles. Someone, I think Mary Lou, yells _Make a wish!—_and the cake explodes.

Voice-over while chaos reigns, kids scream, moms yell, pink frosting flies everywhere. And a little boy's voice loudly yells, _"Cowabunga! Yippee Ki Ai Ay, motherfuckers!"_

And the scene goes black but I still hear the kid whining, "But, mo-m! It was in a movie Dad and I watched! Yow! Mom! It was! Yow, my ear!"

And Zoë's gleeful voice says, "Was that not so awesome! Wow! Thank you, Joey!"

I smile, close the phone and think, _Happy birthday, baby. I love you. _

You just _know _when she turns sixteen she's gonna blow up her new pink Porsche, right? Like I said, it's written in the stars.

_..._

**Epilog/ Cowabunga A$$$h***s**

**I called an old friend** who is the Assistant Director in Charge of Operations at the FBI in Washington. We did the _hey how's it going_ shit quickly then Fred said, "So—what's up, my man?"

"There was a little—ah—contretemps at my in-laws house today…," I answered carefully.

"Yes?"

"It seems my daughter's birthday cake blew up."

I heard Fred suck in his breath and he said, "Omigod, Ranger! Do you think it was a terrorist attack! Did you call Homeland Security! I'll call the President—"

"No! No," I interrupted. "It was a prank, my daughter and her friend did it. They are five years old, Fred."

"Oh geez, I almost had a heart attack. I remember what you did to Marshall and whatsername…. _Helloooooo, Sudan!_ Brrrr! Scary stuff."

I said, "Yeah, well, don't get too comfy. Some of your agents got called in and they questioned the guests and the kids."

"Well….?"

"Fred. They made my daughter CRY! On her birthday."

"Oh shit. I am so sorry."

"Not good enough."

"No, no. I understand."

Good old Fred was getting nervous now, heart attack time returns and so on.

He said, "I'll take care of it."

"Be sure you do," I said with a hint of menace.

…. …. ….

**Fred hung up and wiped his brow**. He said to his second in command, Harold Gordon, "Who are our field agents in Trenton New Jersey?"

Gordon, his sidekick, looked them up. "Lufkin and Paternchek, probably."

"Okay- Get them in here, in _my office_ here in DC." Gordon nodded. Fred added, "ASAP. STAT. _On the double!_" Fred finally yelled.

"What did they do? What—?"

"Gordon. They. Made. Ranger. Manoso's. little Daughter. Cry. At her birthday party."

"Shit, we're dead men, right?" Gordon went pale. He _hated_ hot African weather and iffy plumbing. Not to mention….

Fred nodded. "You got it, son, buck stops here but I'm taking Lufkin and Paternchek with me when we go."

…. …. …..

**I smiled, picturing the scene**. Sometimes it was good to be a notorious badass. I forced my blank face into place and went back to my meeting.

**the end, series tbc**


	47. Chapter 47 & 48

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**a/n**: if the child development stuff is wrong, I apologize. You'd think I could remember, but no.

Zoe is 25 1/2-26 months old.

**There is a bonus second short at the end here, be sure you scroll down!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 47 - The Swimming Lesson <strong>

_Ranger_

**Breakfast, a Saturday morning** on Haywood Street. Cool grey day, not autumn but trying. I sipped my coffee and watched my 2 year old daughter feed herself oatmeal. Hmmm. Probably won't have a weight issue, she misses her mouth as often as she fills it. Her fat little dog Killer however is definitely showing the results of licking the floor clean too often and too enthusiastically.

Louis has fixed a booster seat so that Zoë can eat with me at the breakfast bar.

I peel an orange and set it in front of Zoë, in sections so she can eat it easily. She says, "So pretty, daddy!"

I smile at her then look up as my wife Stephanie walks into the kitchen, cell phone glued to her ear. ''Okay, okay...I'll meet you at Cluck in the Bucket in 15 minutes!" She disconnects and gives us little morning kisses. Tells me, "Lula swears she saw Mandy Everstone go into the laundromat with a huge trolley of washing. We've been hunting her for almost a month!"

''Yeah, I know."

Mandy wasn't the biggest felon on Vinnie's skip list but her bond fee would put a few grand in Steph's pocket and make her happy. Stephanie happy, I mean, not poor Mandy the chronic shoplifter...

Steph was talking, "...so can you take Zoë to Mommy-n-Me swimming this morning?"

"Yay!" yells Zoe. ''Yay, daddy!"

Stephanie and Zoë went every Saturday morning to the swim class at the local rec center. I had encouraged it: the center was almost brand-new and very upscale, clean, safe; Zoë got to use up some of her excess energy, and Steph got to meet normal young moms and then enjoy, well, participate in, the water exercise program for the mothers. The kids had supervised snack and story time, while the moms did a half hour of boot camp water aerobics.

Nowhere did it say _I_ would have to attend.

But I can take one for team. How could I resist two pairs of big beseeching eyes. I nod calmly. ''No problem. Go get your skip, babe."

Quick hugs and she is gone.

...

**The Brenda Mankusco Memorial Recreation Center** was mad busy on a dull Saturday in late September. The place teamed with peewee hockey, seniors basketball, and swimming events. Plus a quilt show. I hesitated for just a second on our way to the unisex politically correct infants and babies locker room—yearned for just a flash for the ice rink and the brutal fast pace of an ice hockey game. I eyed Zoë and made a mental note. She could start hockey at age four...maybe?

She wore her swimsuit under her little tracksuit. No pink ruffled bikini here. It was a miniature infant sized Speedo just like the Olympic girls wore! Obviously this was serious business to my daughter. We put her clothes in a locker and I carefully corn-rowed and french braided her mop of curls. It was still too short at age two for a ponytail.

''Mommy just lets it loose,'' Zoë told me impatiently.

''This will be better, chica, your hair won't drown you.''

Giggle. ''It won't, silly!''

A mom nearby watched us and cooed, ''Oooh, that is so cute!"

I hustled Zoë off to the pool.

A brawny bouncer type rec manager greeted us. I showed our family leisure pass and he grinned. ''Hi, Zoë! Who's your date?''

''This is my daddy, Gerry!''

''Personal escort of the princess?'' he smirked.

"Yeah." We locked eyes, I wondered about his arrest sheet, and he backed off.

Tug at my hand. "Daddy! Look, Janet's waving. Janet is my teacher, daddy.''

An athletic twenty-something in a red Baywatch Babe lifeguard suit bounced up to us.

Zoë squealed. "Hi, Janet! This is my daddy!"

She smiled."Hi! Good morning! First time here, Mister, um, Manoso?"

''Yes.'' We shook hands. Her grip was too strong. Scary.

"You do know Zoë has to wear swimmies under her suit, don't you?"

"Swimmies?"

"Yeah, they're like a waterproof diaper/plastic panties thing. Disposable."

''Zoë doesn't wear diapers in the daytime." Just training pull-ups for sleeping, not that it was any of Janet's business. And I wasn't thrilled that I knew all this either.

"All kids under three wear swimmies, dad, that's the rule!" She leaned in and whispered, "Sometimes the cool water makes even the best trained little one, um, pee. We have to be careful for the health code and all."

''Daddydaddydaddy! My swimmies are in the swim bag!" Zoë tugged my hand.

"And you do know you have to go into the pool with your child? You have to be in the water at all times! Right, dad?" Janet called after us.

"Daddy! Hurry! The music is starting!"

Theme from Little Mermaid. I may shoot myself.

... ... ..

**I am always prepared. I had an idea** I might have to swim and had worn board shorts under my Saturday black sweats. I rolled my Glock up in my beach towel, we regrouped and back to the class we went.

We were late. I hate being late. I didn't think we'd been in the locker room that long. We went over to the glistening turquoise pool's edge.

Twenty mommies in the pool supporting twenty chubby toddlers.

''...And kick kick kick, three two one, three two one! Yes! Swing the tadpoles left right all around...c'mon, mommies, twirl! Oh. Omigod."

Twenty-one women twirled around, stopped dead in their tracks, and stared at my bare chest. I smiled at them and twenty-one women gasped. Nipples in thin swimsuits got hard. A few ladies dropped their kid and twirled their _hair._

I put my gun on a bench with our towels and into the fray we went.

"Ladies! This is Zoë's daddy!" yelled Janet.

''Aaah.'' A lewd murmur from the group. Someone whispered, ''Stephanie's _husband_?!"

"Ladies, ladies! Kids, and uh, Dad!..." I hoped she didn't call me _dad_ too often. I eyed my towel and my gun. "...and let's begin again. Kick kick kick kick! Big tadpoles put their faces in the water, who wants to show me how _big_ they are?"

We held the kicking kids and waited. "How about you, Mr. Manoso, show us how big you are!" The crowd gasped. "Zoë, you too! Can you both show us!" Zoë obligingly stuck her face in the chlorine and kicked vigorously. I just stood there like an idiot.

''How big _are_ you, Mr. Manoso?" murmured the mommy next to me. I quickly stuck my head under the water. Zoë and I made fish faces at each other underwater.

I seriously considered staying there, two feet under, where it was safe. But no. Zoë's eyes got big and we shot up for air.

''Well!'' said Baywatch Janet. ''Maybe you two are too advanced for this class!''

''Nooooo,'' wailed Zoë.

''Okay and now faces down, faces up, twirl twirl. Hey! Get that out of your mouth!" Janet grabbed something from a kid a few moms down. She stormed over to the edge of the pool, flicked something away. Mumbled, ''What cretin puts that in a pool, yuck!...oh, geez!" _So much_ _for the health code_, I thought. She smiled bravely and turned back to us. "Paddle those tadpole hands, kids! Moms! Knees up, Knees up, one two, one two. Paddle! Breathe, paddle, breathe."

Sigh. The things we do for love.

I paddled and twirled like a trouper.

.

...

_**Monday morning 5 AM**_

**"Yo, boss, how was your** weekend?''

''I took Zoë swimming at the rec,'' I told Tank.

My best friend and backup man tried to hide a grin. "Musta made an impression."

''Yeah."

"Cool."

"Next week you can come and bring the twins."

''Uh...''

''That's an order, Tank.''

''Shit. Ten four, boss."

the end / **scroll down **[series tbc]

* * *

><p>Chapter 48 - <strong>A Few Years Later<strong> [bonus outtake]

.

**Ranger and Zoë are again** at the municipal pool. Zoë is now four.

"Daddy! I want water wings!''

''Water wings?''

''Yes! Look! Amanda has water wings.''

My daughter Zoë pointed at a child in the shallow end of the town pool. The chubby kid was about Zoë's age, 4?—and she had weird inflated plastic tubes wrapped around her chubby biceps.

''Her wings are PINK Daddy. Pink Little Mermaid wings. I must have them.''

''Water wings are for losers who can't swim, baby. Not for little beach girls. You'll look stupid on your surfboard with water wings.''

Stamp of flip-flopped foot.

''I do not care! Water wings! Now! Pink.''

''No.''

''Wah!''

''Crying isn't gonna help, chica.''

Wailing stops instantly. Shifty look on Zoë's face. ''Maybe Killy would look cute ...yes! Killy would look ever so cute in pink water wings! And he does not surf, so he won't mind being a loser.''

''Killer can swim just fine, Zoë. His fat belly makes him float.'' Killer is Zoe's chubby pug dog.

''Hunh! So not?''

''No.''

''Wah!''

_The things I do for love..._

**the end, series tbc**

**be sure you watch the you tube links-they'll be on my profile page, they'll make you laugh!  
><strong>

**Thanks, as always for reviewing!**


	48. Chapter 49

** Shelter from the Storm**

a/n this takes place soon after Zoe's fifth birthday. It is not a Christmas story. enjoy.

* * *

><p><em><strong> Chapter 48 ~ A Very Urgent Message to Santa <strong>_

.

**"Daddydaddydaddy!"**

**"Hey baby." I scooped up my** 5 year old little girl and tried not to wince at her shrill greeting. Zoë is _very_ enthusiastic. Man, if you want unconditional love and you're allergic to dogs, a kid is great_. Not that I'm allergic to dogs, Killer, you know I love you too, boy, right?_ The pug, nattily dressed in a shocking pink Coach logo harness and satin bow, looked puzzled but willing.

"Daddy! Pay attention. please!" Her little hand gently patted my cheek and I fixed my eyes on her same eyes and smiled at her. It still gives me a jolt to see this tiny person who looks like a girly version of me.

"Daddy, I am very very _very_ good, right?"

"Uh huh." Except for the Russian hitman she brought home and blowing up that cake and scaring the FBI guys and...

"And I have a special list for Santa."

"Sweetheart, it's September 3rd, tomorrow is Labor Day_**—**_we just had your birthday, remember?"

"Daddy! That was a very long time ago. It was last summer."

"Last month, baby. Three weeks...not even. Two weeks ago."

"Last summer though."

"Okay," I sighed. "Tell me your Christmas list."

"Okay I want you to tell Santa NOW in case he needs to save up or get a second job or something so he can buy my present."

"Too much to hope you're gonna ask for something doable, like world peace?"

"What?"

"Nevermind, go on."

Zoë wriggled her 40 pound self around on my lap and finally extricated a colored newspaper flier from Target, like from the Sunday supplement, from the pocket of her tiny pink jeans. She smoothed it out and pointed her tiny finger. "Is that not awesome?" I was distracted by her fingernails which were elaborately manicured, painted bright rose pink with pearl white and brilliant neon yellow daisies. Zoë cocked her head.

?

"Your nails.

"Aunt Lula did them for me. We had a girly day. Can you pay attention, here, please, Daddy?"

"Well, since you said please..."

"Good. So lookit! Just looook!"

"Uh huh. So what am I looking at here, Zoë?" Her finger was on the hunting rifles, 25% off if you buy two guns until deer season starts and I was hoping...not.

She moved her hand, turned the page over and said, "It's, it's...a_...pink_...kitchen!" Reverent voice. "A _real_ pink real kitchen! Made of real stuff, not a plastic Barbie kitchen! It has a real refrigerator for my sodas! And daddy! The oven works! And guess what! I can bake cupcakes! With 100% real, edible glitter sprinkles and butter cream frosting!"

"Cupcakes?"

"Yes!"

"Cupcakes?"

"Yes! And glitter_. Ed_-a-bull glitter! Is that not so perfect?"

"Perfect, baby." Just perfect.

* * *

><p>the end, series tbc<p>

[In the real world the appliances do not work but I am guessing Ranger can fix that!]


	49. Chapter 50 My Doggy is Batman

*****photos for this story** are on my blog, posted today 10-16-12. Also a new Ranger oneshot that goes with my new chapter in A Random Life.

blog link is in my profile. enjoy! Happy Halloween!

* * *

><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**.**

**.**

**Chapter 50 - My Dog is Batman—what of it?**

**''Daddydaddydaddy!"**

**My daughter stormed into my office and threw herself** onto my lap. My arms closed protectively around her. Over her dark curly head I saw The General smiling indulgently and next to him, his new aide Colonel Prick looked appropriately horrified. Okay, I meant Colonel Pickering.

I said, "What's up baby?"

"Daddy! Look! I am invited to Izzy's birthday party! It is on Halloween so it will be a dress up Halloween verrrrrrrry scary party! At night! In the dark!"

My wife Stephanie had quietly entered the office behind our daughter. Now she looked at me and shrugged a little.

Izzy is my daughter's scary seven year old cousin. Figures Izzy was born on Halloween, the child is at best a witch, possibly worse.

Zoë waved a large colorful invitation in my face. I said, ''Excuse me a moment,'' to my 'guests' and took the card. Hmmm...yes, a real Halloween party.

The Haunted Mansion Beckons You...Come!

On October 31st, 5 PM

But that was the date I had planned to take Stephanie away for a romantic weekend, perhaps to New Orleans, they do an amazing Halloween for grownups.

I said, "But..."

"Wah! Wah! Wah! I gotta go to the party, daddy! You gotta, gotta take me! You _gotta_!"

Stephanie said, ''We can change our date, Ranger."

"No. There are plenty of adults here who can take Zoë to the party. We'll discuss it later.''

Hah.

...

_Later_

**Britta the Swedish nanny and her boyfriend** Dragan the Romanian war criminal, aka Dave, stood in my office and firmly refused the job.

''What?'' yelled Drag. ''No! No way!'' _Vaaaat? No! No Vaay!_

''You will,'' I ordered.

Dragan shuddered. "No, the thought alone, that child, on All Hallows? Do not frighten me with such ideas, I think I shit my pants, boss.''

Britta gave him an elbow in the ribs and laughed. "No, you always smell that way.''

"Do not!"

''Do too!''

''Do NOT!" Drag stamped his combat booted foot.

Britta grinned and mumbled, ''Oh my god!''

Dragan: ''What?''

Britta told him, "You're a dork!''

''Shut UP!'' I yelled. "And stop kissing her! Find Arkady and send him in. Now."

The mirthful lovers scampered out before I could change my mind. A few minutes later, a tentative knock on my open office door. "You wished my presence, my boy."

_I was so not his boy. _

I glared, then told Arkady Petrovich, ex-KGB hitman, ''Come in and sit down."

Arkady, also known as Monster, sat and fussily nipped up the knees of his Rangeman cargoes, languidly crossed one leg over the other. "Yes, my son? Speak."

I thought hard about the Glock in my waistband.

I said, "You are my daughter's bodyguard. Your assignment is to take her to her cousin's Halloween party in a couple weeks."

"Her cousin.''

''Yes. Jilly's little girl.''

''Ah. The imp from Hell.''

''Well...''

''No.''

''No what?''

''No I am not going near that person on All Soul's Eve.''

''Then you're fired.''

''Not a problem.''

''If I fire you I'll have to kill you,'' I threatened.

''But you will not. Miss Zoë would be very sad if you fired me...or shot me."

''Shit, Arkady. I had plans! With Stephanie. Help me out here!''

''I am fired?''

''No, no. Your refusal is, uh, so noted.''

''Exactly.''

''Any thoughts?''

''Perhaps Mr. Stewart? He is after all related by blood, perhaps that will protect him.''

I smiled. ''Great idea, you just saved your ass."

I motioned Monster out of the room and picked up the phone. When my stealth brother heard the request there was a long silence.

Then...

...a cruel laugh.

And he hung up on me!?

...

_Halloween, around noon._

''Daddydaddydaddy! You are my date! You are Killer's date too!''

"What? No!"

But yes. There I was, strapping them into their booster seats, on our way to the execution...I mean _party._

Why me? No, no, I am not channeling Helen Plum. I meant, Are you wondering why it is me with Zoë and Killer on board my newest Cayenne?

Stephanie took the tickets and the reservations for Halloween in Haunted New Orleans, gave me a huge hug and an excellent kiss. And invited Lula in my place.

So here we are. I did win the costume argument. I was not gonna wear a costume! _Geez._

Zoë had her costume packed up along with Killer's outfit in her big pink Barbie rolling suitcase, along with her toothbrush and jammies, all set to party hearty and then sleep over. She had refused to let Britta dress her in her costume. "It is a surprise, daddy." Which considering the traffic on the LIE was maybe just as well.

''We have to pee-pee, daddy.''

''You just went.''

''But, daddy.''

Back in the car. "Are we there yet?"

"No.''

''Daddy! We have to ...!"

You know how that goes, you have a kid or two, right?

_Man, they pee a LOT. _Then we had lunch at McDonalds.

The good news was: Tank was riding shotgun.

...

_hours later..._

**We arrived as the sun was setting** behind the dunes. Shadows were deep and long and purple. The big white beach house glowed spookily. Or maybe I imagined that.

We were greeted by my sister in law Jilly, dressed up as a butterfly, maybe? Sequined bodysuit, some sort of glow-y sheer wings, glittery 5" heeled platform FMPs. Butterfly dominatrix? She kissed my cheek and said, ''Hey, honey. Nick is Captain Jack Sparrow. I see you came as...uh?..."

I narrowed my eyes at her.

Jilly said, ''Nick's in the backyard putting the final touches on Zombie Land.''

''Zombie Land?''

''Yeah, it's this cemetery full of the Undead.''

Tank grinned. " You know, Rangeman, they have dead people in the backyard.''

**"**Well, some people have swimming pools, others have private cemeteries. It can happen." shrugged Jilly. She gave Tank a big hug and kissed him, turned back to me.

Our face off was interrupted by a cacophony of girlish squeals. The cousins in action.

Then, ''Hello, Ranger.'' Those glacier ice eyes.

I nodded. ''Izzy."

She intoned, "Dark spirits from the grave come forth. Lift us from the black. And show us, show us the way back.''

Zoe: "What's a 'way back', daddy? can I see it?''

_"Ssshhhh..."__  
><em>

But Tank visibly recoiled. "Dark spirits? Hey, no dark spirits! Don't you make no dark spirits come out!''

She swiveled her eyes. "Oh and look. Mr. Tank.''

"Just Tank, baby girl."

Silence.

''I am sure you did not call me _baby girl_.''

''Uh, oh! No, yeah, nope. What should I call you?''

"I am Tatiana! Queen of the Woodland Faerie Tribe_. Can you not tell?_" If looks could kill.

Jilly took Zoë and Killer and the pink suitcase and snuck away. Coward.

We stood pinned under Izzy's gaze, shuffling our feet.

I said, ''You look beautiful.''

She did too, in a deceitful sort of way. Izzy should have had a pointy hat, a cauldron, and a broomstick. Instead she wore an ethereal [costly, couture-like] dress, pink tights, pink satin slippers and sheer pink wings. The dress had a tattered layered pale pink skirt, the top was somehow feathered, like a quail or ...falcon. An owl? The feathers looked real. Realistic too. The child's mane of glowing silver blond hair was dotted and knotted with spangles, flowers, petals, and more feathers. And she carried a sparkling crystal wand.

Now she touched the tip of the wand to her pink lips, stared at me and poor Tank.

Finally she said, ''Thank you." We breathed sighs of relief too soon. Taptaptap went the wand's star against her tiny pearl like teeth.

"Ranger!"

"Uh. Yes?''

" You remember how I just... murdered a guy!''

I was reassuring.** "**Naw... when it's an accident, it's called manslaughter.''

"If it was an accident." The evil child smirked.

We stood in silence. (yeah scared shitless, what can I say?)

Izzy broke into her angelic beatific smile. "Ranger!I understand you are considered a hero of sorts. A prince among...men. And a mercenary."

''Huh? What?'' What did a 7 year old know about black ops mercenaries?

''Well a hero anyway. Oh don't argue, I read about you in _The Times Online_."

"But...''

She waved the wand at me. "You know what the faerie queen does to the prince, right?"

"No."

''She turns him into a Toad!'' Maniacal laughter. "Boo!"

Tank and I each took an involuntary step back.

Izzy bent over laughing her ass off. I frowned. _Brat._ Then, ''Daddy! Lookit!''

Zoë suddenly reappeared, now dressed in her costume. This year she was a ladybug. She had a short red polka dot dress and black leggings, black wings and big black tennis balls on stalks bobbling around her head. Her antennae, I guess.

I smiled. She looked adorable.

"And, daddy! Lookit! Killy says you are his hero!'' (snickers from the evil Woodland Faerie Queen and the Butterfly.) ''And he so wanted to be YOU for Halloween. So...Tah daaaah!"

She stepped aside and Killer the Pug waddled sadly into view. Dressed as Batman.

_Can this day get any worse?_

Thinking fast, I faked a cell phone call, said, ''I gotta go. Be good, baby. Happy Birthday, Izzy."

To Jilly I said, "We'll be back tomorrow night. Oh. If anything happens, call the police and hide in your closet."

**Epilog:**

''Wait. ''

I turned and smiled at the birthday girl. ''Yes?''

''You asked...or thought? - - C_an this day get any worse?''_

''I...''

''Oh don't fib, Ranger. Hear this, my answer to your mind's worries_: Indeed. This day, and all your days could. Get. Much. Much. Worse.''_

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><p>the real end series tbc

Thank you for reviewing! Don't forget to look at the pix on the blog!


	50. Chapter 51 Naughty or Nice

**Shelter from the Storm**

**a**/n This group of stories is about Ranger and his daughters. It is not about his relationship with Stephanie, or intended to be a romance. R & S stories are in "A Random Life". If you do not want to read about Zoe and sometimes Julie, don't read the stories here. Or if you do. pls don't whine. Thank you.

I ll be posting a couple sappy R & S at Xmas fics this week, one here, one on my blog, so check them out later in the week? And I posted a Lester oneshot fic on my blog a week or two ago if you missed it.

love

s

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><p><strong>51 ~ Naughty or Nice <strong>

_I'm makin' a LIST!_

_I'm checkin' it TWICE _

_Cos everyone knows _

_I'm naughty and nice._

_Santa Zoë's comin' To! Town._

_... ... ..._

_Ranger_

**It was a grey afternoon in Trenton.** Tank and I had just taken down Hardon Washington, then rounded out our somewhat crappy day with a confrontation at the TPD. The skip tried to run, slipped on the fog-wet steps of the derelict house he was hiding in. He rolled down the cracked cement steps right up to Tank's, ah, boots. Feet. I have no clue how the guy's nose got bloody, nor did I care, until Morelli met us with an attitude and accusations.

The police chief finally had to step in. Then he walked me and Tank out to my truck, patted my shoulder and apologized. "Joe's under a lot of pressure these days...you know he moonlights at Pirelli's Bar and Grille? Valet parking? "

Tank and I both stared at the chief, who spluttered, "Well you know, all those kids, bad economy...floods? Needs the tips, I guess.''

"He's a volcano ready to blow, Jack."

Jack Shapiro, TPD's new chief of police, patted my shoulder again, He said, "Merry Christmas," and was gone.

... ... ...

_I sees you when you're sleepy._

_I knows if you're a fake._

The incredibly loud, incredibly awful singing was emanating from my office when Tank and I stepped into the comm room. The men on duty hid their smiles and concentrated desperately on their monitors.

_I kinda think that you've been BAD!_

_Omigosh, for goodness snakes!_

_Ooooh, you better watch Mouse_

_Ya better not fly..._

_You better be GOOD!_

_I'ma tellin' you why!_

_So I'm good for goodness sakes._

_Oooh..._

Behind me Tank let out a muffled curse. Or he was laughing. "Don't say a word.," I told him.

"Nope, not a word, boss." He mimed zipping his lips to hide his grin.

"Daddy! Daddydaddydaddy. There you are!"

"Hey baby."

"Come see! Lookit!" Zoë grabbed my hand and towed me into my office. My desk looked pristine, the sofa was properly bare. And the floor looked like the Sunday Times ad supplement had exploded on it. In the center of the mess was Zoë's pink iPad, a yellow legal pad, her iPhone. Target, ToysRUs, Wal-Mart flyers.

"You do remember we are going Christmas shopping tomorrow, don't you, daddy?" Zoë is an equal opportunity daughter and ever since I took Julie Christmas shopping last year Zoë has been begging for a shopping trip of her own.

I toed the mess. And saw Bloomingdale's, Saks, Cartier and Tiffany catalogs. [Cartier? She's six...). And, "Look, daddy, this one is the _best_!"

She brandished the Neiman Marcus Wish List catalog in my direction.

"I made a list!"

That was yesterday...

...

_still Ranger_

**Today we're headed to The Mall at Short Hills**. Monster is driving, Dave is riding shotgun. My daughter's security detail is oddly weighted towards Eastern European gunmen of a war criminal bent. Don't ask, it wasn't my fault.

Be that as it may, their presence leaves me free to discuss the Christmas list with Zoë. But before that can happen the infamous pink phone plays the theme from _**Twilight**_ and Monster, Dave and I cringe. When Zoë answers, my niece Izabelle, aka Izzy, appears on the tiny screen. Zoë puts the call on speaker and we hear:

_''All I want for Christmas is my two front teef, my two front teef. _

_All I want for Christmas is my two front teef, so I can wif you Mewwy ChwissMiss!''_

I notice that Izzy has a pretty sweet voice, and that she is lisping. Izzy's face fills the screen, gets larger, larger...and then she grins.

''Eeeew!" we exclaim. "No teeth!"

''Aiiieee. Izzy has no teeth, daddy! Izzy! Where is your teeth?'' Zoë yells at the phone. From the corner of my eye I see Dave make the anti-vampire crossed fingers gesture then he spits on the the car mat. Monster, who is not Catholic makes the sign of the cross.

The girls go off on a complicated girly riff and I tune them out. Ten miles and forty Christmas shopping traffic minutes later I tune back in. Zoë's hand is patting my knee. She whispers, "Daddy! Will that happen to me? Will I be icky?!" Her eyes fill with tears.

Sigh. "Izzy isn't icky, she is just growing up. And yes, you'll lose your teeth and get big girl teeth."

''No!''

''Yes.''

''Dragon, is daddy telling fibs?''

''Huh, what?'' Dave, always the perfect if somewhat frightening bodyguard, wasn't listening.

Monster was. He met Zoë's eyes in the rearview mirror and he told her, "You'll always be beautiful, Miss Zoë. Even with no teeth."

''Huh.''

Silence. Traffic.

"So, daddy, do you think Macy's sells teeth?"

God, I hope not.

...

_quite a few hours later_

"Look, daddy! This is what I am getting for Miranda and Sophie and Phoebe and Emma-Elizabeth. Is it not so very pretty!"

Who knew that even this far off outpost of the famed Tiffany's could produce something so tacky? Hello Kitty necklaces...one inch tall Hello Kitty figures encrusted with pink pave' diamonds and sapphire accents, set in platinum. Green, I hope those aren't emeralds, eyes. By now Zoë has dragged me [us] inside, much to the dismay of the security guard at the door. But a salesman bustles up and says, "May I help you?"

''Yes, please. I would like one, two...three, four, five...five Kitty necklaces. Gift wrapped please."

Joy spreads across the man's face. He smiles down at my daughter.

"No! Wait." Yes, I look like an idiot, I know, shut up. "Zoë, let's ask the price first."

The man spreads one of the necklaces on a black velvet pad. I flip over the tiny tag. Gag.

$2300.00 _each._

I say, ''No thank you," take Zoë's hand and lead her out to the food court. We sit down at a little table. Minster and Dave sit at a table nearby. Moms with strollers and wailing brats begin packing up in a hurry.

Zoë drags her eyes away from the mass exodus and refocuses on me. "That was bad, daddy. What were you thinking?"

"Uh..."

''These are my very bestest friends, daddy. I love them.''

"Okay, here's the thing, sweetheart. It is not a good thing to give very expensive gifts when the friend you're giving the gift to can't reciprocate." I look to see if she understands _reciprocate_, and she nods. Zoë is precocious. "Instead of the gift making the person happy, it makes them feel bad. And you want your friends to feel good, right?"

Zoë considers this. "The Hello Kitties were too expensive?"

''Yes."

''But daddy, mommy always tells stories about how you gave her cars and stuff, before I got born...and how the cars cost a lot. Does a car cost more than a Hello Kitty?" I nod. "So did that make mommy feel bad?"

"Zoë, she needed a car. That was different. It was work."

''She says usually it was a Porsche.''

''And your point is?''

''I don't have a point, daddy, I'm only six.''

''Okay. So...we make a budget. You chose presents for under ten dollars, for your six best friends. That's it."

''What about Izzy's teeth?''

''Santa has teeth covered, not a problem.''

"Huh. Ten dollars..?" Zoë gets busy on her iPhone. "Does that mean I can't get Joey a Super Ballistic, Mega-Death Nerf H-Strike Elite Retaliator Blaster gun?"

Joey was her self-appointed boyfriend, one of Joe Morelli's offspring. I considered suggesting a case of condoms, the boy is a Morelli, after all. But he is actually a nice boy...and only seven or eight.

"How much is it?''

"$19.95, daddy! I have a coupon!"

"Nope, sorry. And probably his mom doesn't allow guns anyway, Zoë.''

''Huh. This is hard, daddy. I have to think a LOT! You know what? After lunch we'll look for mommy's present while I am thinking."

''Okay.''

''You have a budget?''

... ... ...

_later_

**epilog**

**We came home exhausted but triumphant**, with six sets of Ultimate Fashionista Barbie Closet, $11.99 each, buy one get one half price. Making them come out to $9.99 each, with an extra for poor toothless Izzy. Zoë figured that out herself. And a Hot Wheels Porsche Cayenne for Joey. Also box of chocolate snowmen for Izzy, some convoluted idea about eating and no teeth? A giant tin of peppermint stick chocolate bark for Mommy.

We ordered three dozen black t-shirts for the guys that say:

I Survived Hurricane Sandy

And also for Stephanie, a platinum charm bracelet with tiny pave diamond handcuffs, a tiny black enameled platinum Porsche 911 charm, and a diamond heart that says **4-ever...**

Merry Christmas.

* * *

><p>an: the bracelet is for Harmne! And the first fan fic I fell in love with...r

a/n 2 I chose The Mall at Short Hills because it has the very upscale shops, including Tiffany and Cartier, Prada, etc. The toys are real, including the BOGO Barbie Closet, from Target.


	51. Chapter 52 The Cuteness Factor

**a/n **links for the articles and websites mentioned, definitions, and Killer's photo are on my blog in today's post [1.18.13]. The link is in my profile. There is also Part one of a new Mercenary Ranger story called Could, Woulda, Shoulda. It is listed in the tabs. come read! love sunny

.

This is for R and for B who send me adorable pix all the time and keep me smiling. Thx to H [M] for the inspirations.

* * *

><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**.**

**.**

**52 - The Cuteness Factor **

[Ranger]

**One of those days, one **of those nights: I was cold and tired and hungry and late for a 9 AM meeting. I kept my blank game face on, but I was in no mood for the annual Rangeman _state of the business_ meeting today.

We'd been up all night in the freezing rain, chasing a federal ''most wanted''. Jackson X aka Willy B. Jackson/ William Bonner Jackson was a neo-Nazi creep wanted for meth cooking and gun running. The local FBI had a line on the guy's whereabouts in south Jersey and they called me for help. Tank rode shotgun and my brother Anthony was along for the ride. Actually, he _was_ the ride, we were driving his big black Mercedes SUV in hopes of keeping a low profile.

As if.

So...clusterfuck ensued. You know—rain, wind, darkness, testosterone-amped idiots on both sides converging at a barn in the middle of fucking nowhere. Willy X took off out the back door, jumped in his pickup and headed north. And we gave chase, this time with Anthony behind the wheel. Since the night was so stormy and dark, at some point Anthony switched on the hidden cop lights mounted behind the grille of his ride. More to warn other drivers than in hopes Willy would man up and pull over. Unfortunately we clipped the boundary of Trenton at some point, and picked up an unmarked police vehicle. By the time we cornered Willy in a warehouse area near the river, the Trenton cop was two inches off our ass and spitting mad.

And oh yeah, who should emerge from the green POS SUV but my best buddy Joseph Morelli.

Tank and Anthony chased down our skip while Morelli screamed in my face and tried to back me up against the Benz.

"I am throwing the book at you, asshole. Emergency lights are for law enforcement vehicles only. And you were speeding, out of control and, and, and...!"

I hoped that was rain, not Morelli spitting in my face. I did back up. I admit it. You would too.

''You're crazy, Manoso!"

Water dripped down our faces. I said, "I am not crazy, I'm just colorful." In a monochrome sort of way.

"What were you thinking? Do you know even what you're doing?''

''Yeah. Theoretically.'' But I didn't explain, why should I?"

Tank muscled Willy Jackson towards the arriving FBI Crown Vics, all the while he and Anthony bickered like a pair of cranky toddlers.

''Is that what you call giving cover?'' groused Tank.

''Is that what you call running? If I knew you were going to, like, stroll...all la-di-dah, dude...''

"Oh man..."

Anthony watched Tank shove Willy X to the nearest FBI truck. He shrugged, wandered over, looking clueless. (Danger, Danger!)

Anthony circled around us, shutting the doors on his expensive vehicle. When he got to the driver's side he reached in and shut off the ignition and the grill lights. But he was listening to Morelli's rant, I could tell.

"Yo. I was driving, not Ranger," he finally told Morelli.

"Fine! I'll arrest you too."

"Dude. Why?"

Morelli did the _no grill flashers_ routine again, only louder. The FBI guys came and watched, like we were selling tickets. Finally Anthony dug out his [possibly bogus, but still] FBI creds and waved them in Morelli's face. And the FBI guys got their thumbs out of their asses and moved Morelli aside and out of play.

Momentary calm restored, Anthony handed Tank a brown bag. ''Have granola bar, man. They're homemade, it'll cheer you up.''

Tank took a big bite and moaned. ''Mmm." Offered the brown bag to me. "Ranger?'

''Hell no, his mother puts sugar in those things.''

''She does not.''

''Does so.''

"Not!"

''Shut up,'' screamed our skip from the FBI van.

We signed off and drove back to Haywood Street in silence. And without discussion, we tiredly got on the elevator and pressed five.

...

**You know how** you do: You walk into the small elevator space, you look at but don't really see the far wall, then you turn to face front. We did that.

But.

I spun around. ''What the fuck!?" I growled. Yes there really was a large poster on the back wall with a picture of a couple baby penguins, who were improbably kissing if indeed penguins can kiss. And it said, _**"Be Nice."**_

At the bottom in smaller letters it said, _**"Good karma is contagious. Catch some today."**_

Tank grabbed my gun hand, just as the doors opened on five. I stomped out with Anthony's voice in my ears, "Man, I just love baby penguins, they are like so freakin cute...so like, _aaawww.._.."

I took three strides into the comm room and stopped dead. Both Tank and Anthony crashed into me. I swear I heard snickering as we disentangled ourselves but when I looked everyone was staring calmly at their monitor screens, not a smile to be seen.

"Vince!" I barked at the day's comm room manager. "What the fuck are these stupid posters doing on my walls?"

The poster here was a small grey kitten with huge eyes hanging precariously from a bar of some sort. It said, _**"Hang in there!"**_ And not in an ironic kind of way. My skin crawled.

Vince shrugged. "Not me, boss. Uh, Tank?"

Tank took my bicep in his big hand and steered me to the conference room. "I'll explain everything at the meeting, Ranger. No worries."

Anthony definitely snickered.

...

**The annual January State of the Business** meeting is loosely patterned on state of the state meetings: we look at where we've been, assess where we are right now, and project our, hopefully successful, future. My accountants and business managers give brief financial information; I reaffirm Rangeman's mission plan and goals. And I entertain new ideas and suggestions from the attendees. Who are: besides the aforementioned suits, Tank, Brown, Santos, Mitch, Vince, Hector, Stephanie, and myself. A few other key personnel. Anthony is here as part of the money aspect.

Do I need to do this? No. Rangeman is owned solely by me, for the purpose of providing a cover story for my existence in Trenton and ostensible career as a bounty hunter and security expert. But in my experience, covers and cons are the most believable if you act like the scenarios are real. Therefore I run Rangeman like it's...well, I suppose it _is—_a successful multimillion dollar security corporation.

The most crucial aspect here today goes quickly; the accountants stand up, and say we make a shitload of money. (Anthony sighs, Steph eats donuts.) I focus and give a few remarks about our various operations and contracts, staying of course impenetrably non-specific since most of these people do not need to know.

And then the meeting is opened to new ideas.

But first. "Anyone care to explain the stupid posters on my walls?''

"Ahem." Frederick Rodriguez raises his hand. I nod.

This is the real Freddie Rodriquez, pencil pushing business guy—not me in one of my covers; I just use his name and info now and then .Don't get confused, okay? Rodriguez is thirty-five, good-looking in a Latino kind of way, and smart. He never kills people. Ever.

He has an unfortunate penchant for wearing bowties.

Now he says, "I have one word for Rangeman's future, boss."

("_'Plastics_?''')

"Yes?'' I make a _go on_ gesture.

''_**Kawaii**_.''

''Kawaii?''

Anthony: "Dude! Rangeman Maui. Awesome."

Rodriguez frowns. ''Kawaii, not Hawaii, sir. Kawaii."

?

?

?

''_Kawaii_ is the Japanese term...''

''I know what it means,'' I interject. "Now I want to know what the fuck it is doing on my walls."

Freddie aims his beloved remote at his projector (Anthony sighs again. Steph hands him a donut.)

Rodriguez: "If I may?"

''Get on with it!''

''Kawaii implies a certain attribute of cute, lovable, and/or adorable. Or in other words, nonthreatening. Cute. To put it the simplest terms..."

("Oh like thank god, dude.")

''—it means the Cuteness Factor. It has been proven scientifically that cute sells. And more! But first, maybe foremost (''redundant, dude''), 'Cute' sells!...Arnie?"

Arnie our staff psychologist says, "Studies have shown that people are more receptive—MOST receptive to _cute_. So for example, your clients will feel better, more open, more comfortable, if the person selling them their security system is dressed in an appealing manner. Certainly not armed, dangerous, and all in black.''

(''Pink golf shirts, bro. I keep sayin'." )

"...And certainly if their alarms do go off, they will be more reassured if the responders are dressed in a non-confrontational manner...yes indeed, Mr. Stewart, perhaps in pink golf shirts."

Stephanie snorts and sprays coffee all over the table. Anthony hands her a napkin.

I count to ten. Then I count to fifty. "Is there more? This ...ah, idea doesn't explain the stupid posters."

''Yessir, there is more. Tank?"

Tanks stands up and meets my eyes.

_Traitor_.

"Remember when I got my kitties? A few years ago? And suddenly I was no longer a thug, I was, well, a cuddly bear type of guy?"

?

?

"In Japan, in a controlled, scientific study, researchers found that students in a "cute photo" group outperformed those in the two other _not-cute_ groups by a significant margin.

''This is a good thing, Ranger.''

_No it is not_.

I say, "Gentlemen, I hope for your sake there's a hidden camera here somewhere and this is an episode of Prank My Boss. Otherwise...''

Tank ignores that warning. "Studies have shown that emails featuring squee baby animal pix, posters with cute furry baby animals—all these things slow your employees' heart rate, lower their blood pressure and thus they are able to concentrate—or better and more clearly _process_ information, _with higher comprehension and recall_. In their paper, published in the most recent edition of the online journal PLoS ONE, the authors concluded that _'kawaii things not only make us happier, but also affect our behavior' _and _that 'viewing cute things improves subsequent performance in tasks that require behavioral carefulness, possibly by narrowing the breadth of attentional focus.'_

"In simpler terms, our men will utilize their training most effectively if they are surrounded by kawaii—or cute—images. Cuteness will result in safer, smarter, more effective employees and happier, calmer clients."

''And so ..here is our new screen saver!'' Freddie Rodriguez puts it onto the white walls [don't ask.] ''And I have ordered more inspirational posters, for the gym, break room, the toilets, and for each cubby. I have also sent everyone a new emoticon link, one that specializes in young, hip, cute! kawaii emoticons!"

I may not talk a lot but I am _never_ rendered speechless. Until now. I paste my meanest look on my face and open my mouth to say—

''Daddydaddydaddy!'' That is not me, people. The door slams open and in bounces my four year old daughter. She is bundled up in a ridiculously puffy pink snowsuit and she is lugging her obscenely adorable fat pug Killer. His belly swells with _squee_ cuteness and his tiny feet drag; his wrinkles are deeply etched and mournful. The dog looks sad. As well he should, because he is dressed in a pink fake fur onesie with bunny ears and a fluffy white tail. He _knows_ he reeks of squee-dom. Squeeishness?

''Daddydaddydaddy!''

Everyone in the room relaxes and sighs, "Aaaw."

(snickers from Anthony and Stephanie.)

"Killy can has a Cheezburger! Lookit!"

Freddie Rodriguez quickly flashes the website photo on my white wall. Not a pretty sight. It features a stupid In joke and poor Killer. Rodriguez stands tall and stares me down as best he can. "Need I say more, boss?"

_Squee._

...

_Later:_ ''It's just a bunny suit not a dress, daddy. You need to chill.''

_Later still..._

"...and do not _ever_ wear a bowtie on these premises again, Rodriguez."

"But sir.''

''Ever.''

_yet again later, in the break room:_

Stephanie and Lester Santos are hunched over diet Pepsi, giggling. Gossiping.

Steph has a mirror set up and is working a blue eyeliner pencil, trying to fix her laughter-tears ruined makeup. "Hee hee hee, just stop! Les, I gotta stop laughing!"

"Man, did you see Ranger's face!? Horror story...in a blank sorta way?"

"Well, here's the thing, Les. You guys just don't get it. I always tell him: Ranger is _**cute**_, he is so effin' cute. Seriously cute. I mean it, you know it too! Am I right, or what?"

"Ha-ha-ha, when you're right, you're right, Steph," laughs my idiot cousin.

Stephanie nods, winces as the eye pencil pokes her eye. ''Cute Factor, guaranteed. And hot. Baby animals _are not required_.''

I step into the room.

"Babe.''

the end, series tbc

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><p>thanks as always for reviewing. Don't forget to go look at the links and pix and new story! enjoy.<p>

/ full link on my profile


	52. Chapter 53 Sidelined

**_a/n: _**I hope to have the final chapter of my story Coulda etc up on my blog tomorrow, or late tonight. 2.10.13. check it out?

* * *

><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**_._**

**_._**

**_Chapter 53 ~ Sidelined_**

**_._**

_Washington DC, The Pentagon_

_[Ranger]_

.

**General Jackass, not General XXX** the good one, this is the other guy— says, "This operation entails infiltrating the Colombian cartels' cocaine production sites."

"Refineries," elaborates one of the drones who hover around the general.

"And shipping routes," adds another guy. They look expectantly at me and Tank.

_Oh man, this is just waaaay__ too easy._

I put my boots up on General Jackass's cheap metal military issue desk and say, "No, sorry. Can't do it. I've been sidelined with an injury."

General JA scoffs. "I thought you were such a man of iron, Manoso—man of steel. You're not some overpaid baseball player, Colonel."

_No but I still wish...nevermind. _

_Hey, a man can dream, right?_

"I got shot, General. Just the other day." I stand up and pull my RMPMC-USA t-shirt out of my faded light desert camo combats, start to pull it up. The black t-shirt with the big grey lettering and the grey American flag hides any bleed through. (The function of the shirts, besides hiding dirt and blood, is so that my men are easily identified as military contractors in the field. After the incident where Jackass got us all on CNN, yes,_ again!,_ Seventh Avenue knocked the shirts off and they sell for a hundred, two hundred bucks on eBay. Like Steph says, it's not my fault.)

I drag my t-shirt up to my armpits and say, "Wanna see?" They gape at the blood splotched white patch of gauze on my abdomen. The large non-NATO-approved, armor-piercing round went through the muscles above my hipbone, missed anything crucial. However— "That's not the best part. The exit wound is the size of a grapefruit." I turn and display the much larger bandage on my lower back.

Someone gasps and a tray of glassware crashes to the floor. I wipe the grin off my face, pull my shirt down, and walk out.

In the hall Tank says, "That was disgusting."

I stare him down. "Did you want to go to Colombia and chase down HCL-coke labs? You can still volunteer."

"No but you didn't have to give them a strip show, boss. This is the Pentagon, not Chippendale's"

I decide not to inquire about his familiarity with Chippendale's, famous for its beefcake male strippers.

I say, "I enjoyed it."

"Huh."

... ... ...

_later, Trenton_

_._

**"Daddydaddydaddyyy!"**

**_Oomph._** My five year old daughter Zoë crashes into me and I know I turn white—not pale: ghost white. The room spins a bit. Not only am I injured, that large exit wound seeped out a few pints of blood. I refused both a transfusion and the good pain meds, so even Zoë's little forty pound body, hitting me at warp speed, is painful. Very painful.

I wobble, cover by lifting her into my arms and swinging her around. Tank gets a good grip on my bicep and steers me to the sofa. I plop down gracelessly with Zoë on my lap.

"Daddy!" She plants a big wet smooch on my cheek. I kiss her back and pat Killer-the-pug who has waddled out to greet me too.

"Yeah, baby?"

"We are going to the museum, remember?"

"Ah..."

"The Cradle of Aviation Museum! It is in New York!"

I try to figure out how New York could be a cradle of aviation. Weren't the Wright Brothers from, I don't know, North Carolina? Vaguely I wish Anthony was here; he'd know all the historic details.

_Lindbergh,_ supplies my stealth brother, who'd been keeping an eye on me and my injuries.

"It is our almost springtime class trip, daddy! We are going on a loooong bus ride. And we will have movies and songs and games and, and, and, a _competition_, it's a treasure hunt at the place where we're going! And a box for lunch! And maybe, you know, Kool-Aid?"

_Huh?_ I mumble, "No Kool-Aid!" but she ignores me.

Tank says, "Box lunch, Zoë, like a picnic."

She smiles at him and nods. "The bus has a bathroom!"

_Thank God. Or maybe: not?_

"And when we get there we will see many many _many_ air-o-planes." She throws out her arms and does the airplane zooming thing, still seated on my lap. I'm pretty sure I've left white and gone on to grey. The room wavers a little.

"So—you're gonna go with us, right, daddy?"

"Ah..."

"Daddy! You said! You said _if_ you got home you will be the _parent-person_ instead of Monster and Uncle Lester. You _promised."_

"Shhhh, baby. Give your dad a minute, okay?" I hide my sigh but I think she feels it or her ESP is kicking in because she looks me in the eyes really closely, seeing into poor Daddy's black black soul. I block her and wonder why they want to drag little tiny near-toddlers all the way to NYC to see airplanes. It's beyond my comprehension. It's not like the zoo where the animals are cute and cuddly. And it's winter. They'll be lucky if it doesn't freakin' snow.

I give Zoë a little hug and stare into her big brown eyes. Saying no to my daughter is a lot harder than saying no to General Jackass.

"Are you gonna puke, daddy?"

"No." I hope not. Not right now.

Tank finally says hesitantly, "Zoë, sweetie..."

She turns her head to him and her lip wobbles. Tank meets my less than focused eyes over her head and he caves. He says, "Can I go too, honey? It sounds like fun."

She smiles, nods, hugs me (I wince discreetly) then hugs Tank. Lucky for me, Tank always has my back. And he kindly doesn't mention cocaine wars or Colombia which is looking greener and prettier with every passing second.

_I can do this. I will do this._

I say nothing, just give him a tiny nod.

Tank nods back.

**the end, series tbc**

The Cradle of Aviation Museum, Long Island, NY

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><p>Thank you for reviewing!<p>

s


	53. Chapter 54 It Could Be Worse

standard fanfic disclaimers apply for JE, Top Shot, and The Supernanny.

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><p>an I have been very ill the past month and have not been able to write. The idea for this story came to me during my hospital stay. I hope it's fun...it may not make sense if you have not read my other stories. Top Shot is a TV show on History Channel; Supernanny is a TV show on, I think "E"? She performs interventions for very naughty families, it's hilarious.

A photo of not-quite-Zoe will be on my blog, link is in my profile. Thanks, Bonnie!

This is for my dear friends, you guys know who you are, right?

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><p><strong>Shelter from the Storm<strong>

**.**

**Chapter 54 - Could Be Worse**...

(...after all, this could be the new JE novel you're reading instead of my fanfic, lol.)

.

**Scene: Supernanny Jo Frost is riding** in the back of her chauffeur driven London black taxicab. She is dressed in a Queen Mum-ish suit, Elvis Costello eyeglasses, and has a disapproving expression on her face. She is not as old as she tries to look. But still.

As always she opens her laptop, looks at us and introduces this week's episode. She makes a prim mouth and tells us, "Not every family wants my help. Some parents do not want to change or learn. They prefer to live in chaos, with nasty disobedient children, mired in their dysfunctional world. Let's take a look!" She turns the laptop screen so we can join in.

On screen are two adorable little girls, one a blonde angel, one with a mop of wild dark ringlets.

The blonde says, "Our home life is crazy! We never know what will happen next!"

The dark haired one says, "My daddy is scary! My mommy blows things up!"

The blonde: "Not anymore...''

Dark haired child: ''But still!" Her mouth wobbles.

The littlest one says, "Supernanny, we need you! Please come help our family!"

Together: ''Please!"

Blue and brown eyes well with tears.

Fade to black, hint of hysterical laughter...

[commercial break]

... ... ...

Jo 's _Voice over: I used a hidden camera._

_I am now seated in the office of the girls' father. He is scary—but ever so handsome, oh my goodness!_

"Mr. Manoso. I am so happy to be here."

_Another man is present but he is not introduced. Mr. Manoso shakes my hand politely and we sit down._

"Who are you?" he asks.

''I am Jo Frost, The Supernanny!''

"And? You need a bodyguard, ma'am? Just let me call my sales executive."

''No! No, I am here at the request of your daughters. I help dysfunctional families! I am on TV."

"TV?"

...

_20 minutes earlier_

Hal: "Boss there's a woman here, asking for you. She has a British accent..."

"It's not Bailey, is it?''

"Uh, no sir. This is a ...well, a lady.''

''She's right there, huh?''

''Yeah.''

''Did you scan her for weapons?''

''Yes boss, all clear. She says she urgently needs to see you in person.''

''Fine. Bring her up. I just have to finish up with Anthony, tell her ten minutes.''

''Yessir boss.''

_now_

_[back to Jo]_

''I will show you the film your daughters sent me.''

''My daughters?''

''Yes. They contacted me.''

''Wait." The dad picked up his phone, said, "Immediate sit rep on Julie and Zoë."

''Yessir. Their details checked in within the past 15 minutes, all is calm: Julie is at soccer practice, Monster is bringing Zoë home from ballet.''

"Arkady," Ranger stated.

''Um, what?''

''He wants to be called Arkady, not Monster."

Without missing a beat, Junior said, "Yessir, Carlos."

Ranger stared at his iPhone. "...Double check on the girls.''

''Yessir.''

The man clicked off but the handsome young dad stared down at his iPhone as if it had bitten him.

A few moments passed. The scruffy blond man finally leaned over and said, "Ranger! You need to move on."

"He called me Carlos...,'' whispered Mr. Manoso."

"Get a grip.''

The dad locked his dark chocolate eyes on my face. "Go on."

I made sure I did not get flustered. He is amazingly hot. I said calmly, "It is brief, as you will see. We don't usually get tapes from the children."

The blond man snorted. "Go figure."

This one was hot too. I tore my eyes off his extremely luscious albeit raggedy clothed body and cued the children's reel.

_Please come help us, Supernanny, please!_

As the tape faded to black and the blonde child's angelic face disappeared. The dad said, "That child is a menace to society."

"Lethal weapon, dude."

I nodded calmly. ''I understand you may have discipline issues, but with my intervention...''

''I have NO discipline issues!''

The other man laughed.

''And she is not my child!''

''Blended families can be extra difficult. But if you are willing to learn, you and your wife, and allow us to film you for TV I can change the way things are. Surely you do not want your daughters to be menaces to society?''

''No filming! And she is not my daughter. Quit laughing!'' he added to the other hot young man.

He picked up his phone again. ''Britta, can you come to my office. Now." Frowns. ''Yes I realize it is your free time, I just need a word. Thank you.''

I said, ''Is Britta your wife?''

''No.''

''Where is your wife?''

''She's working, lady.''

''Please don't call me _lady_. You can call me JoJo.''

''Last name's Frost, Ranger,'' supplied the other young man. I wondered what he was? A personal assistant? And why were they both wearing holsters and guns?

''Britta is my daughter's nanny. She doesn't need you, she has a wonderful nanny."

''The little one with all the hair is his daughter, Zoë ,'' the other man told me.

"Yes, and the blonde terror is my niece Izabella, but she does not live here. Or near."

''Thank you, Jesus,"

Both men made aborted signs of the cross, then scowled.

Knock on the door. Tall blonde supermodel young woman walked in followed by another very handsome man, this one dark with sea green eyes.

The dad said coolly, "Britta, this is Ms Frost aka The Supernanny." To me he said, ''Ms Frost, my younger daughter's nanny, Britta Helstrom. And one of my daughter's bodyguards, uh, Dave, Smith?"

The employees nodded politely. The man said, ''No cape?''

?

?

"Do not all ze superheroes wear ze cape?"

''Oh Drag, shut up!'' giggled Britta.

''And talk normal, _ese_.''

''As you can see, Ms Frost, Britta is a highly trained childcare giver/ personal guard."

''How can a bodyguard be a good nanny?'' I huffed.

''Ms Helstrom is a college graduate with a degree in early child development, she was trained in hand to hand combat and weapons skills by both myself and Swedish special forces. And Zoë loves her. We consider her a member of the family." For some reason he added a glower at the dark young man.

"Show Britta the tape."

Afterward, the nanny sat in silence, her enormous blue eyes full of tears. "Why would Zoe say that? "

''I assume Izzy set it up, Britta. Zoë will be home in a few minutes and we'll clear this up."

I nodded briskly. ''While we wait perhaps you can tell me a bit about your home life? For example, if your wife works, who cares for the home? Prepares healthy meals? Do you cook for your children, Mr. Manoso?"

"Meals? Lady, the Amy taught me forty-seven ways to kill a tango with a toothbrush. They didn't teach me how to cook."

"Oh my...''

We were interrupted. The door was flung open and a tiny whirlwind in an enormous pink tutu flew into the room."Daddydaddydaddy! I am home!"

The child, who was followed by a lugubrious older man [agedly handsome, also armed!] and a small fat pug dog, flew into her father's arms. He swept her up, but instead of sitting on his lap she planted her pink toe shoe'd feet on his knees and stood, then bent forward, staring into his eyes.

We all got a good look at wrinkly pink tights on a round little bum amid a huge frill of pink tulle.

"Hi, baby." Mr. Manoso gave her a kiss and settled her on his lap."A couple things, Zoë."

"Yes, daddy?"

''First of all, in the future I would appreciate it if you would not give my men stupid street names."

Huge eyes and dropped jaw. Then, "But daddy! I did not name Binky! Or, or , or, Woody , or..."

"Fine." Mr. Manoso looked over the child's head at the old man."You're on your own, man."

The man shrugged, said something in a foreign language and left.

''Next! Why is Killer wearing a pink dress again? We agreed he would not have to wear dresses, didn't we?"

The child scrambled down from his lap, struck a pose. "It is not a dress! It is his costume! Do you not recall we have a recital soon? And Killy is the star!'' The girl did a few pirouettes then began to sing, "How MUCH is THAT doggie in da window!?"

All the adults clapped their hands over their ears and cringed. Manoso aimed a finger at the child and she stopped instantly. "Thank you," the dad said. "Killer, hey boy." He was talking to the dog. The little dog panted, then snorted. "Okay, fine. Your choice, man." The blond man scooped up the pink tutued dog and departed.

''And last, chica, see this lady? She is Jo Frost The Supernanny. Maybe you want to say hello?"

The child swiveled huge brown eyes in my direction and her face lit up. ''Oooooh! You came! Hello. Hello! I am Zoë!"

I shook her hand. "I am Nanny JoJo." Except for the singing, the child seemed very well behaved.

''_M'hija_, why did you ask the Supernanny to come here?"

The Swedish nanny, unable to contain herself longer burst out, "Why, Zoe? I thought we were so happy? Why would you...?"

The child ran to her caregiver and hugged her.

"Oh no I LOVE you, Britty, but, but...I was afraid you and the Dragon would get married soon, because, you know, Dave is all gooey in love with you, and then you'd have babies of your own and you'd have no time for me and and and..."

Both Britta and the man called either Dragon or Dave were blushing. But the young woman said calmly, "That won't happen soon, Zoë, and I'd still be working for Ranger, I wouldn't be a stay at home mom. I love my job!"

The blond man reappeared with an unadorned pug. "Sorry to interrupt. But, uh, Syria, bro? Mitch will be here in like five..."

Mr. Manoso nodded briskly if minimally. "Right. Nice to meet you, Ms Frost. Someone will show you out.''

''Nooooo!" yelled Zoë. "No! I want to be on TV! I can be bad, Izzy showed me! Look. Time out!" She slumped in front of her dad's desk. "NO!" She ran out. "Back! I can be naughty, I can! I can dump Cheerios on daddy, too! Izzy said..."

I shook my head. "I don't think so, Zoë." We all stood to shake hands, Manoso herding us politely out.

The blond man said, "Well but dude, our princess wants to be on TV. That is so cool. Maybe..."

Zoe piped up, "Yes! Everyone knows the tantrums are fake! It would be so fun, daddy!"

.Mr. Manoso frowned. "What's with all of you wanting to be on TV? Are you crazy?"

The blond man said to Dave/ Dragon, ''Man, I so wanna do Top Shot. That would be so awesome, right?''

"Yes,'' the other man agreed. ''Maybe...Top Shot: Rangeman?"

''Cool. Or..I know! Top Shot: The Assassins." They high-fived.

A new voice. "You called?"

''Dude! Mitch! Top Shot?"

The newcomer [will I bore you if I said he was handsome too?] frowned. "Geez, no. No photos."

"Spoilspo..."

The elevator door opened and disgorged two women, one a robust black women in neon spandex, the other a pretty brunette in torn jeans and a lot of diamonds.

"Honey, we're home!"

Manoso kissed her, then she bent down to hug her daughter, pat the dog. Looked up."What's going on?"

''Babe, this is Jo Frost the Supernanny, she was just leaving..."

"Oh I love your show! Well walk out with you! This is Lula, she loves the show too...now tell me the truth, the fights and the tantrums are fake, right?"

Lula said, "I don't know, my sister used to hit me with a foam Nerf baseball bat sometimes, she was a terror..."

The elevators closed. I was whisked away.

...

**Ranger stood for a moment** in blessed silence, flanked by Anthony and Mitch. Finally Mitch said, "Syria?"

''Yeah. Let's go upstairs. I'll get Zoë settled for a nap and we'll talk." He scooped up a now tired little girl. The elevator doors reopened and the three young assassins and the pug stepped inside, Ranger a bit in front with a sleepy Zoë in his arms. Killer sat on Ranger's foot. A few seconds passed, then Anthony reached out and carefully nudged Zoë's thumb out of her rosebud mouth. The child sighed and snuggled into her daddy's shoulder.

Mitch— who lost his unborn child and his wife to terrorists—finally said, "You're a lucky man, Ranger."

"...Define 'lucky'."

the end, series tbc

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><p>be sure to go to my blog and see Zoe and Killy's almost pix.<p> 


	54. Chapter 55 Choose One

**Shelter from the Storm**

**.**

**.**

**55 - Choose One**

**.**

_Ranger_

**I know just how Helen Plum** felt: _Why me? Why the fuck me?_

It was a sunny autumn Sunday - - blue skies, crunchy red and yellow leaves, brisk wind blowing NJ's pollution out to sea. Or to Newark, who knows. Who cares. I was listening to my sat phone which was broadcasting to me, Tank, and Anthony an SOS/ Mayday from an operative whom we'd inserted into hostile territory. Not a Rangeman guy, needless to say. My men don't call and yell Mayday like their mission is the Titanic and it's sinking fast.

Not to mention we use a different, possibly cooler, code word, but...nevermind.

The agent's job was simple. He was supposed to position markers for US surveillance drones that when activated would monitor the development or deployment of ''weapons of mass destruction" .

Now you probably know whose operator this guy is, right?

"Sir, the native persons in the building attempted to detain me.''

''But you escaped.''

''Yes but I am injured!''

''Sign him up for a freakin' Purple Heart, dude,'' scoffed my stealth brother. _He_ wouldn't call in a mayday if he was dead.

''What happened?"

''The hostile...''

''Hostile?"

''Well the man whose warehouse I was trying to infiltrate? He thought I was a burglar, I guess.''

''And.''

''He grabbed me! He got holda my jacket, wrenched my arm really bad getting free-''

''But...?"

''Um, my arm hurts bad! But I can move it okay. The problem now is...''

_Scratch scratch scratch _on my office door. Then the door ever so slowly cracked open and a little face peeked in.

"Hang on a moment," I told the operative. I looked at my daughter. I had finally impressed upon Zoë that she was not to come bursting into my office when the door is closed. But like any five year old her grasp of _Don't Interrupt Daddy_ was a little open to interpretation. So now she didn't barrel in shrieking ''Daddydaddydaddydaddy'' but here she was. On tiptoes. Looking hopeful.

''What's up, baby?''

''Daddydaddydaddy!'' she whispered loudly. ''I must consult you on a very important issue.''

Tank and Anthony snickered.

I told the guy in XXX, ''I'll call you back.''

''But sir!''

''Go on, chica.''

''Daddy! Soon it will be Halloween.'' She climbed up on my lap and snuggled in, face craned around to look me in the eye. Kid voodoo.

''Yes?''

''And I have had a poll on my Facebook page, deciding what the very very _very_ best costume for me and Killy could possibly be!''

I could swear I recall banning Facebook.

''Here is The List*: (now remember, the most _best_ thing is what Killy wears because he is so ever so cute, right?)"

We three idiots nodded. "Right.''

''So ..." she brandished her pink iPad. We all leaned in to look. "Chia Pug! Baked Pugtato...Yoda Pug. Marilyn Pug."

''No pink dresses!''

''UPS Precious Package Pug. Bumble bee pug, Bat Pug..." The photos went on and on.

Anthony grinned happily. "These are awesome, Zee."

''Yes but everyone's favorite is..._tah dah!_ Queen of Hearts Pug. And I shall be Alice in Wonderland and wear a blonde wig and stupid maryjane shoes. And mommy wants to be the March Hare. She says to tell you she has a bunny costume you're gonna love?"

_Hmmmm..._

''I can be the Cheshire Cat,'' volunteered Tank.

We all turned to stare at him.

"No?" he shrugged.

''I wanna be the Caterpillar!" crowed Anthony. ''I'm sure I have a hookah stashed somewhere and Mooner's got those tight lycra outfits, I hope he has like neon green, and..."

''Bro. Please.''

Zoë was smiling and nodding. "And you, daddy, you will be - -"

_bbbbrrr._

The sat phone buzzed insistantly. I hid a sigh. ''Zoe, just a second, okay?" Then, ''Yeah?" to the idiot in XXX.

''Sir, you hung up before I got to tell you the bad part! ''

''You're injured, I heard you. You'll survive.''

''No! I lost my passport! It was in my jacket pocket. The warehouse guy has it.''

''Your passport?''

''Yeah.''

''Why the fuck do you have a passport?'' I covered Zoë's ears. "Black ops agents do not carry passports."

''Uh. Travel to a foreign country? Anyway, I was gonna go to the US embassy, but then I remembered we don't have an embassy here, so I was thinking maybe the French embassy.''

''What?''

''This guy's a moron,'' mumbled Tank.

''Agent Jones - -'' I said sternly.

''Name's not Jones, sir.''

''It is now. You'll need to get across the border into XXX.''

''No, I can't set foot in XXX.''

''Why not, Jones?''

''Well, that's private, need to know, between me and the Agency.''

''Right now I _am_ the Agency. I'm your Agency and your only hope, Jones. So plant the damn bugs and haul ass over the border. Call me when you're safe. And the mission is accomplished.''

''But sir!"

I shut down the sat phone.

''Now Zoë, what were you saying? Mommy is the March Hare, poor Killy is wearing a dress again. And I am...?''

''You're the Joker, daddy!''

''There is no Joker in _Alice in Wonderland_,'' Anthony told her.

"Oh well. There could be. It's cards right? Queen of Hearts? Joker?...or, I know, you can be the Mad Hatter!''

''But, Zoe."

''You haveta choose, daddy: Mad Hatter? Or Joker?''

I looked at the sat phone still in my hand and nodded. Yep. I was one of those things. Just not sure which.

the end, series tbc

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><p>*the photos with Killer's outfit choices are on my blog, go look! Link is in my profile here.<p> 


	55. Chapter 56 Another Year

Shelter from the Storm

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.

a/n Goldie Blox are a construction toy that earlier this season were much lauded for their intent to teach girls construction/ engineering. Then public opinion swung the other way and they have been vilified for their pinky, princessy styling. Plus they stole a Beastie Boys song?

[you can google them since ff won't allow the link here]

...

**56 . Another Year, Another List**

**.**

_Ranger_

_._

"Da-ad. That is so sexist!"

_Uh oh._ When Julie calls me me _dad_ I know I am in teenage trouble land. It's like when your mom called you by full name when you were a kid: _Ricardo Carlos! You get your butt in here!- - - _if, you know, my name was really...uh. And my mom was around to give a shit. Oh nevermind, you know what I mean.

''Dad! Are you paying attention!? ''

''Yes.''

''Okay. Stop procrastinating! Please read the list again.''

Julie and I have a tradition. We always do the family Christmas shopping together. And right now we are going over everyone's wish list.

This year not only is Julie with us for the holiday, she has brought her siblings, Mark and Sara. Rachel and Ron wanted to go on a festive romantic holiday trip, minus offspring, and have foisted their entire set of children on me and Stephanie. I'm used to extended mixed up family situations so I'm fine with having two more kids here. The more the merrier?

But Stephanie was appalled. She welcomed the kids with open arms but privately she called Rachel a ''selfish bitch".

Not an issue I care to address.

"I swear she'd have left the two kids home alone!" huffed my lovely wife.

"Well.''

''They are not old enough for house sitting duty, Ranger. Remember that old movie, _Home Alone_? You must insist they come here with Julie. ''

''Fine, babe.''

...

Now Julie and I are planning our shopping campaign. I read off my iPad : "Mark wants Hobbit Legos and the new GTA 5." (Grand Theft Auto 5)

"Mom would _never_ allow him to have that, daddy!''

''She's not here though,'' I point out.

''Fine.''

''And Sarita wants a video game called _Lost Kitty_. Is that like Hello Kitty?'' I enquire carefully.

''No, it's more like Mario Brothers but it's pink. Eeew."

''She plays it on her iPad?''

''Well she would if she had an iPad, daddy.''

''Okay, so add that to our list." A kid needs a tablet, right?

Julie taps the items onto her own iPhone list. ''Okay. But remember, mom doesn't like us to call her Sarita, it's too ethnic.''

I channel my inner Stephanie and roll my eyes. "Yeesh. Sara, then."

Julie nods a little. At 13 she still looks a lot like that school photo we used when Scrog kidnapped her. She is still sweet and beautiful, her smile can light up the world. But she has gotten tall. And somewhat to my dismay now has the beginning of what Rachel primly calls ''a figure".

_Maybe Julie doesn't look quite so much like me anymore_, I think vaguely.

(Though of course she does. It'll take more than baby boobs to make her anything other than a baby girl clone of her Daddy. Maybe she could dye her hair?)

"Next?" comes the teenage longsuffering prompt.

''Now for Zoë,'' I say carefully. "She really wants these Goldie Blox." The Goldie Blox were what inspired the severe _Dad_ reprimand a few minutes earlier.

"Dad. Goldie Blox are a con, a fake, a marketing ploy. They claim they'll make little girls grow up to be engineers, but they're just all pink and sparkly. While claiming to instill science techniques they instead perpetuate the American Princess myth.''

I have no problem with princesses. Certainly my Zoë is a perfect example and I love her just the way she is.

I tell Julie, "Both guys I knew in college who became engineers couldn't get jobs, chica. They both went back to law school."

''Yeah like the world needs more lawyers?''

"What do you suggest instead, for Zoë?"

Julie stares at me then seems to deflate, her political stance has suddenly run out of gas, I guess. ''I just don't know, daddy.''

''So we'll get her the Goldie Blox," I decide. I'm the boss, uh parent?- I get final say.

Big sigh. "Fine. Merry freakin' Christmas.''

My little Scrooge."Merry Christmas, baby. ''

_I love you._

the end, series tbc

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><p>Thank you for reviewing!<p>

Merry Christmas, Happy and Healthy and Peaceful holidays to everyone. love, sunny.


	56. Chapter 57 - Snowman

**Shelter from the Storm**

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><p>an This chapter will not make sense unless you've read the previous chapters &/or my other fics like The Price is Right. But you might enjoy it anyway. AU/ OC.

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><p><strong>57 - Snowman<strong>

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.

**"No, you can't go out to play**, it's too cold." Olivia Stewart spoke gently but firmly.

Ranger's little daughter stood hands on hips and glared. Her foot in its tiny UGG boot hovered in an almost stamp. "But I want to go out to play in the snow! I want to make a snow man."

''I know. But it's too cold.''

The now famous Polar Vortex had finally reached the east coast on Sunday. First snow, then frigid temperatures closed in on New Jersey and New York. Officials frantically cancelled meetings, events and school classes. And since Ranger had had the foresight to whisk Stephanie off to Costa Rica for a winter getaway, when Zoë 's school closed down, the little girl was sent off to stay with her ''Aunt Olivia" for a few days. Entourage uselessly included, of course.

Killer the pug was tucked into a cozy polar fleece basket with Olivia's three pugs; all four were snoring softly. The bodyguards and nanny were in front of the TV, watching season two of _Sons of Anarchy_. And Zoë was in the big open kitchen with Olivia - - restless, bored and cabin-feverish.

Now she said firmly, ''I must go out right now and make my snowman. Uncle Anthony gave me a snowman kit for Christmas and if I do not use it RIGHT NOW, the snow will melt.'' Tears threatened.

Anthony's gifts this year had been possibly inspired and definitely unique. Julie adored her red and black plastic ladybug kite. A chance to be a child a bit longer, instead of a too cool teen. And Zoë loved the silly snowman kit, a box filled with fake coal, a cheap scarf, a polyester felt top hat. Plastic twig arms. Olivia glanced at the row of aqua Mason Jars on her counter. They were just about the only touch of color in the white room and on top of one of the old zinc lids sat her son's gift to her: Fred the Tea Man tea infuser. _"Put your orange pekoe in his pants and enjoy!"_

The notion of her billionaire son doing his Christmas shopping, last minute no doubt, at Bed Bath and Beyond made Olivia grin. She tried to picture her son actually walking through such a store. MIB bodyguards in tow. The mind boggled. Was he wearing shorts? Flip flops? In the snow?

Now Zoë was on snowman crusade. Olivia refocused on the little girl who told her, ''In fact Uncle Anthony is supposed to be here to help me build the snowman.''

"Uncle Anthony is at work.''

Big eyes. "He works? Like - - a job?''

LOL. Even the kids think her son is a slacker.

"Yes, honey, he has a job.'' Or two or three. Olivia knew not to ask for details - -

''Like daddy?''

''Yes. Like your daddy.''

''Huh.''

- - and hoped Zoë even at age five had a similar mindset. Just in case, the experienced mom/ aunt offered a distraction. "Maybe later after lunch it'll be warm enough to go out. We'll see, okay?''

''I guess.'' The pout continued. Silence while the little girl assessed the situation. Then, "Look, Auntie Livy. The snowman kit doesn't have a carrot for the nose. Do you have a carrot?''

Olivia did a fast mental inventory of the contents of her Sub-Zero's veggie bin. "No...but I have really pretty orange felt. You could make a carrot! While you wait for it to warm up.''

''Not too warm.''

''No but more than 5.''

''Soon I'll be more than five.''

''True. But you can be five for awhile first.''

They entered the large studio where Olivia painted her giant white canvases. On the work table she found a bin of felt, and handed over a square of orange wool. "How's this for a carrot?"

Zoë's eyes got wide. "Okay. Oooh, that is so pretty.''

Olivia patiently showed Zoë how to fold and cut out a long pointy felt carrot. She threaded a needle and helped Zoë sew a few stitches. The little girl seemed competent enough and after watching for a few minutes, Olivia turned to her own interrupted work.

She was doing watercolor illustrations for a book.

They worked together in happy silence for awhile.

Zo asked, "Now what?

"Hmmm? Oh here's stuffing, just shove a bunch in with this chopstick.'' Tongue tucked in the corner of her rosebud lips, the little girl worked with fierce concentration.

The carrot completed, the little girl brought it over to be admired.

"Excellent," nodded her aunt.

''Well, I am all finished now." Zoë peered at the table easel and little pans of paint. "Whatcha doin'?"

"I'm making pictures about a story.''

''What story?''

"It's a Christmas story. Do you want me to read it to you?" Olivia held her breath, expecting the little girl to insist on reading the manuscript herself. Zoë at five was precocious. But the child just nodded.

"Okay."

The two cuddled up on the old [white] sofa, wrapped the cashmere afghan snugly around them. Olivia read the tale of the little tree who went to the beach.

At the end, Zoë again had the big teary eyes. ''That is so sad.''

''No it's not. The tree was so happy...and loved. In the end."

''But it's so cold out on the beach now.''

"Yeah. Let's have lunch. How about grilled cheese ?"

"With bacon inside?"

_Ranger, forgive me?_

"Sure."

''And canned pink tomato soup?''

"Oh yes!"

''Aunt Olivia, after lunch can we bake oatmeal cookies? You always make oatmeal cookies when it snows. Daddy told me.''

Pleased the snowman was forgotten, Olivia smiled. ''Sure we can do that.''

''Excellent. Right after I build my Frosty.''

Her father's daughter. _Relentless._

_._

the end, series tbc

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><p>You can read the Christmas story on my blog, and see photos of the Xmas list gifts. Link is in my profile.<p>

Thanks for reviewing!


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